


Like an Arrow Through a Flock of Doves

by arsenicarcher (Arsenic), hoosierbitch



Series: Prison 'verse [1]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), White Collar
Genre: Crucifixion, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Multi, Sexual Violence, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 62,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/arsenicarcher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he takes the rap for a crime committed by Barney and the Swordsman, Clint is charged as an adult at 17 and spends the next four years of his life without protection in prison.  Enter one Neal Caffrey, who knows how to charm his way to whatever he wants or needs, and Clint's life gets a lot more interesting.  Pretty much, the story of Clint in prison, Clint getting out, and Clint, like always, finding his way to SHIELD, and Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like an Arrow Through a Flock of Doves

**Author's Note:**

> Hoosierbitch: Thanks to arsenicjade without whom this story would have been neither conceived nor safely born. She made sure it got here.
> 
> Arsenic: First, thanks to Hoosier, for taking this journey with me. It was quite a ride. Thank you to forsweatervests for the partial alpha which helped reshape and improve the story. Thank you to paper_tzipporah and ihearttwojacks for the grammar, structure and big picture betas, and to egelantier for the conceptual beta and the Russian pick. Also thanks to the marvel_bang mods for being fantastic the whole time, supportive and organized. Super huge thanks to ria-oaks for her beautiful art, and for going way above and beyond.
> 
>  **Story Notes:** 1\. Don't ignore the warnings on this one. We're not kidding around, this fic is brutal. 2. I'm a lawyer. I know there's no way Clint would end up in federal prison for this, and that federal prisons don't have parole. If you're reading this story for the reality of it, I'm going to suggest you search elsewhere. 3. I (Arsenic) am using this for the "imprisonment" square on my hc_bingo card. 4. Have fun, kids.

“Hey. Bitch.”

Clint looks over lazily at the summoning. He gave up fighting over what he responded to three years ago. Bitch is actually pretty sweet, given the options.

It’s one of the Irish, Kavanagh, who’s generally pretty, well, Catholic, and so doesn’t touch Clint, at least not that way. Clint cocks an eyebrow. His jaw and throat still hurt from the party the Yakuza set threw for Nishimura’s birthday two days earlier.

Kavanagh looks like he’d rather be anywhere but standing next to Clint, who’s curled up beneath one of the chess tables. It’s not any safer there than anywhere else, but it’s the one habit Clint hasn’t been able to break. In the orphanage and the circus, there had always been somewhere to hide. Sometimes Clint thinks that’s the foremost thing prison has taken from him; other times, he acknowledges the stupidity of that thought.

Kavanagh shifts on his feet, but finally says, “Sheehan wants you.”

Clint has to wonder who Kavanagh pissed off, even if it’s mostly a vague musing. Sometimes it’s a good idea to have some sense of the politics running this place. Most of the time it doesn’t really matter who offs or overpowers whom: they all see Clint the same way. But Kavanagh is not, in general, a messenger boy, even if Sheehan is top dog. 

Sheehan’s Catholicism is a lot more honorary than Kavanagh’s. Clint bites back a sigh. Sheehan’s about twelve hundred years old and practically impotent. When he’s in a mood, he likes to make up for it with implements. If he’s picking on Kavanagh, he’s in a mood. 

Idly, Clint considers fighting. It might get him out of it, this once. Sheehan will have Doyle and Campbell go to town on him, and he’ll end up in the infirmary, ignoring the hacks and well-meaning but ultimately useless psychiatric and medical staff. They won’t kill him. He’s tried to force that before. Twice. 

Still, it might give him a few days of peace. Although, probably not, seeing as how the gangbangers run the infirmary. Clint looks over at where Kavanagh is still standing, somehow both patient and uncomfortable all at once. Clint rolls his eyes at himself. Delaying the inevitable will only make this more painful or humiliating, or both. And as used to things here as he is by now, Clint likes to minimize that, thanks.

Moving past what he silently terms his moment of melodrama, Clint slips out from under the table, stands up and says, “Must be my lucky day.”

*

Clint figures things out pretty quickly once he arrives at Sheehan’s cell, which is being heavily guarded by both the Irish, and, less obviously, the hacks they pay to look the other way. Fresh Meat is in there, one of the cons brought in on yesterday’s transport, the one Clint had taken one look at and thought, _Pretty Boy_ and _finally, someone to distract people_. It was an uncharitable thought, one that burned deep down in the place where he still allowed himself to feel ashamed, but it’s been awhile since there was anyone else around who was either young or pretty or both and unprotected, the way Clint is, always has been. He just needs some rest.

When Clint enters, Sheehan snaps his fingers, and Clint goes to his knees, crawls. He’s made the decision to come, not to fight, he’ll see it through. Maybe Sheehan just wants an extra set of eyes at Pretty Boy’s hazing. Pretty isn’t Irish. Clint knows the signs. He may have contracted for them at some point, but that’s not how loyalty works in here. 

Except, maybe the rules are changing, because Sheehan says calmly, “A demonstration, Caffrey.”

He looks at Kavanagh as he says it, though, and Clint’s got no idea what to think of that. A demonstration of what? It takes Clint less time than it takes him to mentally ask the question to know that whatever the demonstration is, it involves him, and it’s not going to be fun.

“Mouth open,” Sheehan says softly, tapping Clint’s head. He’s on his knees next to where Sheehan is sitting, not having been given permission to rise. He opens his mouth even as there’s the scrape and hiss of a match and Clint knows what’s coming, but he’s made up his mind: no infirmary, no gangbangers, not if he can avoid it. Sheehan rarely burns him too badly. He just likes to show off.

With most men inside here, it’s at least sixty percent about the sex. With the leaders, it’s always at least ninety percent about the power. Clint has learned to hate all of it.

The match comes down on his tongue and he can’t help the soft whine it forces from him. The fire is out, but even so, Sheehan says, “Suck on it.”

The first time this had happened, three weeks into his fifteen year sentence, two of them had had to hold Clint down, a third forcing his mouth open and shut. A fourth broke his jaw, as a lesson in disobedience, and then all of them, all six—Kavanagh, their seventh, had been lookout—had fucked his mouth, his throat, before leaving him for the hacks to find.

Clint sucks. He sucks and he repeats, a second time, a third. He deep throats Daly when told, keeping his eyes on Caffrey, as commanded. Caffrey, to his credit, does not look away, does not flinch, keeps his expression impressively calm and blank. It is better, Clint thinks, than either interest or pity. Clint still wants punch him in the balls. Kavanagh is standing beside Caffrey, still and strong, and Clint has figured out what this little “demonstration” is. Clint is an object lesson in what happens if Sheehan revokes Caffrey’s right to protection, which he has clearly managed to cajole from Kavanagh; Kavanagh, one of the thirteen people in this hellhole who won’t lay a hand on Caffrey.

Clint was only slightly off in his musings about Sheehan’s likelihood of using implements. He uses Regan’s hand instead. Regan is easily twice Clint’s size. Clint bites straight through the flesh of his forearm struggling not to scream. The party stretched him out, Nishimura and Ugaki double-teaming him, so he doesn’t tear, but he imagines it’s close. Most of the time, for all that it’s never gentle or kind or anything other than rutting, the sex hasn’t been particularly brutal for the better part of three years, since he stopped fighting, since he acknowledged they had won.

Clint does scream when Regan tears his fist out. Someone pulls Clint up by his hair and punches him in the stomach, keeping hold of his hair so he can’t double over. Clint mumbles, “Sorry, sorry,” because he knows the rules. Hacks are hard pressed to ignore screaming.

He’s dropped to the floor and he stays there, trying to catch his breath, trying to find a spot that doesn’t hurt, concentrate all of his attention on it. It works, but he misses whatever happens next. He’s brought back into the present when Daly kicks him in his side—not hard enough to break anything, but more than hard enough to hurt—and spits, “Get dressed, cunt.”

Clint blinks and looks around for his clothes. It’s only Sheehan and Daly, the others have all left. Sheehan sneers, “Get her out of here.”

*

The first three months after Clint was sentenced, when he still thought Barney or Buck might come visit him, when he still believed loyalty had its rewards, still was under the delusion someone gave a shit about him, Clint had regularly dreamed about beating everyone off, about becoming his own protector, his own one-man gang. In fairness, Clint had been seventeen; old enough to be sentenced as an adult, young enough to be lower than the lowest man on the totem pole. Seventeen-year-olds, Clint has since decided, are allowed to be egregiously stupid.

The next six months, Clint dreamed about finding a protector who would actually fulfill the role: would watch Clint’s back and not take it out on his ass. He’d attempted to convert to Islam, but his skin color had predetermined his faith, evidently. Clint supposed it was just as well: he hadn’t the heart to believe in any kind of higher power by that point in time. 

The last three months of his first year inside, Clint simply dreamed of finding a protector, no matter what price exacted, just so he’d be off the damn market.

After that, Clint—wisely, to his way of seeing things—gave up daydreaming, and accepted he was on his own. Within the next twelve months, he taunted the gangbangers into rupturing his spleen during a beating, landing himself in an outside hospital for a week and losing the organ, but ending up right back where he’d started. Later, he’d smart-mouthed the Skinheads into gut-wounding him and leaving him to bleed out next to the free weights, which had meant another week in an outside hospital, and another return right back to where he’d begun. After that, the way being in excruciating pain all the damn time just made everything worse, he stopped trying so hard to get himself killed, figured he’d let it take care of itself. Logically, it would have to, sometime over the next thirteen years, probably even in the eight between him and possible parole.

Only, two years later, Clint is still alive. He doesn’t always feel that way, not even most of the time, but there are enough intervals of pain to prove the point, and it’s a pointless argument to have with himself anyway.

Which is why Clint finds it mildly hilarious, in a dark comedy sort of way, when he ends up with a protector, compliments of Asshole Caffrey, who has waltzed in off the fucking street and made friends with every psychopath in this place. It’s only been a few days since Clint was made into a Very Special Lifetime Movie About Prison Rape by the Irish for Caffrey’s benefit, but Clint has watched him, and he’s not even entirely convinced Caffrey needs Kavanagh. People like him too damn much.

Clint does his best to put it out of his mind. He’s fairly certain Caffrey’s not a threat to him, just not of any use, either, and so can safely be ignored. Clint realizes he should have paid more attention on the sixth morning after Caffrey’s arrival, five mornings after he watched Clint play life-sized fuck-doll on Sheehan’s floor, when Gretchenko corners Clint in the showers—not, in and of itself, all that unusual—and says, “I have word you would consider being taken under my wing, yes?”

There are only three Russians in the prison, but nobody, literally nobody, is stupid enough to mess with them. The last person who did was found skinned, still alive. 

Ivazov and Malyugin have never shown the slightest interest in Clint, or much of anything outside of contraband liquor, cigarettes, time in the gym and conversations with scant words in Russian that are completely incomprehensible to anyone but the two of them. Gretchenko, on the other hand, has shown interest more than a few times. He likes to hear Clint beg, likes to see him cry, and is brutal if he senses Clint has given in too easily on either. Clint’s pain tolerance has made it a better game over the years, Clint knows.

Gretchenko is not Clint’s first, second, even tenth or eleventh choice of protector. Clint sure as fuck doesn’t want to owe Asshole Caffrey anything, let alone his possible sanity. Clint doesn’t hesitate, not one second, before asking, “Terms?”

Gretchenko’s smile scares the shit out of Clint. It’s only through four years of near constant terror that he keeps from pissing himself. He doesn’t so much as fucking blink.

*

It’s almost reassuring, waking up every morning knowing who’s going to hurt him and how bad it’s likely to be. Of course, usually he wakes up from nightmares about being strangled by vines or monsters or cartoonishly big hands. Other mornings he wakes up because Gretchenko’s actually strangling him, fucking him into alertness and then back into unconsciousness. Gretchenko’s good enough not to damage Clint permanently, or so he says. Apparently the man’s had a lot of practice.

A couple weeks into Clint’s new arrangement, Caffrey approaches him. Clint’s almost never alone these days (which is maybe the worst thing of all—he never gets to hide now), and Caffrey’s managed to single him out in one of those rare instances when he’s alone. “Neal Caffrey,” the man says, holding his hand out with his introduction, as if they’re meeting for the first time, as if Caffrey hadn’t seen him with a hand shoved up his ass, begging for more. 

“Fuck off.”

“You should really eat that, you know,” Caffrey says, nodding at Clint’s tray of food. “They’ve done something new with the mystery meat.”

Clint sniffs at it. “Probably pissed in it again.”

“Huh,” Caffrey says, leaning against Clint’s side as he goes in for a closer look at the suspicious entree. “Well, yes, now that you mention it, it does smell faintly of urine.” Clint shrugs and inches away from Caffrey. 

“Whatever. You want me to eat it, I’ll eat it. You want to take it, it’s yours.” 

Asshole Caffrey puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder to keep him from standing up. Clint searches the room for Gretchenko, but, of course, the one time he actually needs protection, the man’s nowhere to be seen. “I wanted to talk to you,” Caffrey says.

“Then talk.” 

 

“I was trying to help,” Caffrey says frankly. “You were injured because of me, and I was trying to make reparations.” Clint doesn’t know what reparations means. He doesn’t ask Caffrey to explain. “You were something of a commodity, as it so happens. It was hard to find someone capable of taking you off the market who was also willing at a price I could manage.” Caffrey's eyes narrow. "I should have asked more questions, made certain it was a good bargain." 

Caffrey’s looking at Clint’s neck, at the skin that’s become black with bruises. There’s a constant collar of bruises around Clint’s neck these days. Between the pain from that, and the damage from deep throating Gretchenko’s cock for long enough that he passes out, Clint tries not to talk very much. He doesn’t have much to say, so it’s not hard. For a moment, he wonders what Gretchenko's price was, wonders what others were asking, wonders, exactly, how much he was worth, what he owes Caffrey. Then he shuts all that away. Asking isn't going to get him answers, he's learned that all too well. 

“Don’t take it back,” Clint says, as quietly and fiercely as he can. “I’ll repay you however you want, alright?” Caffrey studies him for a while—maybe to see if he’s serious, maybe because he’s planning something involving Clint’s eyes. Caffrey seems to want to look him in the eye a lot. Clint decides he’ll fight if Caffrey tries to damage his eyes. Not that it’d do any good, but it’d be a nice memory to take with him if he ends up blind.

“Good,” Caffrey says, settling back on the bench like it’s a fucking throne. “In a few days, someone will approach you with a job. You’ll take it, no questions asked. You’ll carry out your duties as assigned—and if you deviate from them, I’ll know—but if I have a request, you’ll comply immediately. Your first loyalty is to me.” 

“Whatever,” Clint says. Caffrey looks down at Clint’s throat again, a speculative look in his eye. “I’ll do it,” Clint adds. “Asshole.”

*

Four days later, Clint is given his first job.

Caffrey had gotten him assigned to the fucking library.

*

The library is run by the two Old-Timers in prison, guys who have been in so long that nobody, maybe not even the two of them, remembers what they’re there for, and people have long since stopped trying to mess with them. Clint suspects they were probably just as bad as everyone else in their heyday, but they’ve never harmed Clint, never done anything but give him space.

One other con works the library, but he’s a Muslim. They leave Clint alone, too. The Russians are in the license plate factory all day, which isn’t off-site, but it is three buildings over. Practically a world of space between Clint and his “protector.” The point is: the library is safe, as much as anywhere or anything in this place is safe. 

It’s also quiet, and not that much work. In his four years, Clint’s been shared around a lot. He hasn’t worked the infirmary, which he hears is also pretty sweet, but he’s been put in the kitchen through the worst of summer, when the federal government can’t much be fucked to air condition a bunch of cons all too well, as well as the laundry. He’s done time amongst the license plates, and has a burn scar on the back of his leg to show for the fun that was for Clint and the Mexicans, who ran it at the time. He’s even worked the road-tarring crew, which was also hot and unforgiving as hell, but underneath the sky, so Clint hadn’t complained, not even when he’d ended up with second-degree burns from the sun.

The library is a fucking paradise, and Clint keeps thinking about Asshole Caffrey’s assertion: _your first loyalty is to me._ It isn’t as though Clint was precisely underestimating the guy before: Caffrey’d shown a clear knowledge of how to get his way since stepping through the prison gates, but it’s beginning to occur to Clint that being actively terrified of Caffrey might not be the worst idea he’s ever had. 

When Clint first arrived, he was assigned a bunk with one of the Italians. The Italians run the mailroom: a position of power. Clint would understand later that he’d been some type of a favor between the Italians and the Japanese. So the Italians were given him first. They weren’t creative, but back then, Clint hadn’t needed creative to make him scream. 

They traded him amongst themselves for two days, no food and no water, and then set him up to get thrown into solitary for another three. By that time, Clint hadn’t minded solitary, not even the way the chill of the concrete ate into his bones, and they didn’t feed him much, and the cuts from the beatings burned with infection.

He’d been put in the infirmary when they let him out, into the care of the gangbangers. And that was where Clint learned his first truly valuable prison lesson.

Johnson was in on a five year trafficking charge. He’d already done one. He was young, not that much older than Clint, but protected by gang affiliations, which made all the difference. Johnson came on nice. He gave Clint just a little extra codeine, a second dessert from the cafeteria, small kindnesses that became Clint’s whole world.

When Clint had learned to trust Johnson, Johnson told Clint to meet him at the gym in the pre-work hour of a Thursday. Clint showed up and realized almost immediately that he’d been traded by Johnson as a favor to Paxton, who was a lot higher up on the ‘bangers food chain than Johnson.

Paxton got off on fear, so it probably would have been easy enough for him—Clint was still fresh, hadn’t entirely learned how to hide the worst of the terror—but Johnson had traded the things Clint had told him while doped up, while Johnson was being nice, and Clint was stupid enough to believe that meant something. Paxton took his time, using the weaknesses Johnson had shared with him, pulling Clint apart from the inside out.

He made Clint thank him at the end, forced the words out through pain and threats, and Clint had silently added, _for teaching me it’s the ones who show kindness that are the most dangerous._

Clint’s never forgotten the lesson, but it hadn’t seemed to apply to Caffrey until now, when Clint’s sitting in one of the foremost requested gigs in the joint and his ass is only payable to one dick. Clint thinks he might have gotten himself into something he can’t get out of. The worst part is, he’s not sure he’ll choose to if he can, not if it means giving up what Caffrey’s gotten for him. Whatever Caffrey can do to him, make him do, Clint doesn’t think it can be bad enough to outbalance the benefits received. He just has to remember that fact. That, and that Caffrey is just Johnson with more style and intelligence.

It’s not enough to keep him safe; Clint’s smart enough to realize that, but it’s what he’s got. Clint is highly skilled at working with what he’s given.

*

Winter comes late, but it comes harsh. It makes time in the yard rough, the bones Clint’s had broken for various impertinences over the years—and sometimes just for somebody else’s funsies—ache with the chill of the air. Gretchenko likes to make him stay out there for the whole of the free hour, his coat disallowed, so Clint’s muscles tighten up with the cold, making him unable to relax as Gretchenko slams in.

He develops some kind of cough in mid-December that won’t go away and is blazing, fiery agony on his abused throat. Gretchenko likes it. He bruises Clint’s ribs for the fun of watching. 

Caffrey, who has finagled a position as secretary to the warden, of course, comes by the library with tea that smells like mint and herbs. Caffrey walks to where Clint is going through the purchase requests for something the government might actually grant. Most of the requests are for porn. Clint just sets them aside.

Caffrey puts the tea down next to Clint and says, “It’s honeyed, you really should drink it.”

Clint doesn’t pretend it’s a request the way Caffrey does. He wraps his fingers around it, wishing he didn’t enjoy the heat so, but the prison isn’t heated all that more diligently in the winter than it is cooled in the summer, electricity costs being what they are, and all. He blows over the surface, watching Caffrey surreptitiously to make sure he’s not going too slow. Maybe the point is for Clint to burn himself.

Caffrey just says, “I’ll need you to have a GED for my purposes, you understand.”

Clint most certainly does not understand. His brain is going over the sheer fucking oddness of Caffrey’s command when another coughing jag comes on and he doubles over with it, trying to ease the strain on his ribs. There’s nothing to be done for his throat.

The worst of it passes, and Clint knows he’s got tears in his eyes, but he ignores them, they’re involuntary. He takes a sip of tea, two, trying not to think about how good it tastes, how real, like something from the outside, something from a place he sometimes forgets exists. It soothes the worst of the aftermath of the coughing and he goes back to looking at Caffrey, who’s waiting patiently.

Clint isn’t entirely sure what to say. His last piece of formal education was fifth grade, while in the orphanage, and it’s been a while. He’s kind of doubtful he can actually get a GED. In which case, he supposes he’s no good to Caffrey, and he loses any ground he’s gained. He bites the inside of his lip trying to decide if admitting that now will mean Caffrey might find some other use for him, or if it will just hasten his return to gen pop bitch with a job in the laundry or license plate shop. The real issue, though, Clint supposes, is that if he doesn’t come clean, and Caffrey realizes his time has been wasted later... Clint shivers. He knows his imagination, his breadth of cleverness is small compared to this man, with his white, straight, sharp teeth, and his diamond-clear, diamond- _strong_ blue eyes. 

Clint shakes his head and whispers, “Not smart enough.” Then, because he knows he should try, even if it won’t make a difference. “Sorry. Find you someone who is?”

“You,” Caffrey says, his tone brooking no argument. “Dmitri and Khalid have agreed to help me tutor you.”

Dmitri is one of the old-timers, Khalid is the Muslim who works in the library. Clint wishes, briefly, he had any idea how Caffrey makes the world simply bend to his will. Then he makes himself focus. He takes a few more sips of tea, girding himself to talk, which is its own kind of hell at the moment—Gretchenko makes Clint learn Russian words, repeating after him until Clint is spitting blood into their sink—and asks, “And if I can’t?”

Caffrey’s smile is hard to read. He stands and says, “You will. Enjoy the tea.”

Then he’s gone, and Clint looks down into the cup. He’d like to pour it out, just to show he can disobey Caffrey if he chooses. The cup is still warm underneath his fingers and it smells heavenly, something apart from this place. He takes another sip, the slide of honey, herbs and warm water soothing his throat and accepts that this is one order he’s just going to follow.

*

For his New Year’s gift to himself, Gretchenko has Malyugin hold Clint’s head—as if Clint has anywhere to go—while he takes his time inking a collar of barbed wire around Clint’s throat with a contraband, homemade tattoo gun. Clint doesn’t cry, but it’s closer than he’s gotten in a while.

“Скажи «Спасибо!»,” Gretchenko says, handing the gun off to Malyugin, who takes it, and slips out, probably to visitors hours. Malyugin has a son who comes to see him. Caffrey has someone who comes to see him every Sunday, and on holidays. Clint wonders what that’s like, wonders if it ever even occurs to Barney that maybe he should come by and see how the kid brother who took the fall for him is doing.

“Сука,” Gretchenko says quietly. It’s a warning. 

Clint makes himself think. What had Gretchenko said? Oh, yes. _Thank me._ His knowledge of Russian commands is becoming quite extensive. Clint goes to his knees, undoing Gretchenko’s fly without even having to think about where his hands are. It’s as if Clint’s body has realized this is its natural state of being.

He takes Gretchenko down, not resisting when the expected hand comes to the back of his head, pressing him forward. The stretch of the skin around his neck burns, but Clint ignores it. Now that the worst is over, it’s just a sting, just another scar, just something else that marks him as less-than-human.

Last New Year’s, the inhabitants of gen pop had seen their way to cooperating and strung Clint up in the laundry room, where nobody was supposed to be during the holidays. One of the skinheads got creative and attached Clint’s balls to a five-pound free weight, so that Clint would have to put as much strain as possible on his arms not to get his balls torn off, and even then, it was a close thing.

Throughout the day, they’d all come through and had their fun with Clint, one, two, sometimes three at a time. He was pretty sure at least forty or so of the inmates had enjoyed some part of him that day. By the time someone had cut him down, he was in bad enough shape they had to take him to the infirmary, where he spent the better part of two days.

Gretchenko finishes coming down Clint’s throat and pushes him away, hard enough that Clint hits his head on the cell wall, and has to blink a couple of times, clear his head. Gretchenko smirks, “С Новым Годом.”

_Happy New Year. _Clint ducks his head in response, like he knows he’s supposed to. Gretchenko would be pissed if he knew how much better this one has been than the last three. _Yeah,_ Clint thinks, _happy fucking New Year.___

____

*

Caffrey brings Clint a science textbook when he ends up in the infirmary three days into the new year, after Gretchenko got trashed on smuggled vodka, a New Year’s present from his brother, or so Clint was told. There was something hilarious in the fact that even Gretchenko’s brother remembered him from time to time.

“This is the worst present I’ve ever gotten,” Clint says, referring to the book. The words are his new favorite lie. His last worst present is etched into his skin. He pats at it with one clumsy hand. Caffrey grabs his wrist to stop him from pulling out his IV. “Stupid,” he says. 

“Is that a general observation, or a pointed insult?”

“Huh?” Clint tries to scratch his nose, but realizes he can’t. Caffrey’s still holding his hand. That’s sweet. “We goin’ steady?” He feels marvelously okay about that. “‘Bout time you fucked me,” he says, letting out a sigh of relief. “You’re slow.” Caffrey lowers Clint’s hand to his lap. Clint stares at it. “You gonna leave me all hooked up while we do it?” That’ll get messy. The IVs inevitably get pulled out, and blood and fluids and everything will end up all over the room. “I might have...” He squints at his crotch. “I might be...cathererized. Cathetered. That okay?” Most of them couldn’t care one way of the other about Clint’s dick, but Caffrey’s...Caffrey’s different. Clint doesn’t know what to expect from him, doesn’t know what to be afraid of. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Caffrey says slowly. 

Clint shivers. He should have known that. Caffrey’s scarier than that. “‘Kay.”

“I brought you some work to keep your mind off of things.” Clint hums. Caffrey puts the textbook on the bed next to Clint’s thigh. “They said you might be here for a while. There was...” Caffrey sighs. He sounds sad. Clint feels bad for him. “Your job is to get better.”

“My job’s to get better,” Clint repeats dutifully. “My first loyalty’s to you,” he says, because it’s important that Caffrey remembers that. Important that he knows Clint hasn’t forgotten. 

Caffrey stays for a while longer, making no sense at all, sounding sad and terrifying in turns. He touches Clint’s forehead before he leaves. Sort of...like, brushes Clint’s bangs a bit sideways. It’s weird. Kind of nice maybe. Hopefully he’s not scouting territory for a new tattoo.

Clint touches the tattoo around his neck, because Caffrey’s not there to stop him anymore. The drugs they have him on are strong enough that it doesn’t even hurt to touch the inked lines. He almost doesn’t hurt at all. 

He has nightmares every night. 

Those hurt.

*

The textbook’s chemistry, which, of _course_ , Clint sucks at. He’s actually pretty good at geometry and algebra, and he kind of enjoys history, at least, like, the parts about the Civil War are cool. Chemistry and biology, though, he’s a mess at, and given that his reading comprehension is still stuck at a fifth-grade level, the language arts requirements are kicking his ass as well.

When he’s off most of the pain drugs, and he can feel anxiety again, he has to work at not freaking out about what Caffrey will do if he doesn’t pass. After a couple of days of struggling with the textbook, though, one of the nurses asks him, “Need any help? That was my favorite subject.”

Clint knows he’ll be there for another couple of days, at least. After that there’s no good way to get back to the infirmary so the help can continue, but it might be useful, for a bit. On the other hand, “What’s the price?”

Clint tries to sound knowing and like he’s considering the offer. He’s fairly certain he just sounds tired. The nurse blinks, then says slowly, “From you?”

“Haven’t got any lackeys,” Clint tells him, doing his best for ironic, rather than outright bitter.

“You actually follow doctor’s orders. All the way through. And when we send you back, actually take the meds.”

That last part will never happen. Unless they’re only antibiotics, Gretchenko will have the pills off him and on the market within minutes of his rearrival in gen pop. Clint doesn’t mind lying, though, not in this instance, when it will get him the help he needs for Caffrey’s ends. “Deal.”

The nurse looks at the page Clint has open from above, scanning it upside down. Then he says, “Okay, this is how I figured this part out.”

*

As Clint predicted, Gretchenko relieves him of his pain meds no sooner than he can get inside the cell, and welcomes him back by way of having Clint suck him for the entirety of his chess game with Cole, one of the Old Timers. The game takes about two hours. Clint wonders, idly, how many guards Gretchenko had to bribe to have that much free time in his cell. It’s easier than actively trying to ignore the pain, and the way he probably won’t be able to eat for a day or so with his jaw all locked up.

It’s hard to sleep through the pain. The cough, which was finally going away with rest and time away from the out-of-doors, makes a reappearance. Gretchenko just smiles and sends Clint outside for the hour. Clint takes the chemistry book, working through the parts he’s beginning to understand thanks to the nurse’s tricks.

Caffrey comes to sit beside him in the yard one day, and Clint blinks because nobody in their right mind is outside if they don’t have to be. It’s snowing a little, which actually has warmed things up, just slightly, but it also means Clint can’t study, since he doesn’t want to get the book wet. It’s already beat to hell and it’s important that it stays intact.

Caffrey rocks a little on his feet. He has a coat on, of course, with pockets for his hands, and even a hood. Clint looks away. Jealousy is a useless emotion, particularly in relation to Caffrey. After a moment, the other man says, “Khalid tells me you finished ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’.”

Clint never really knows what to say to these kinds of statements by Caffrey. If Caffrey were a friend, he might tell him what he liked about the book, and what he didn’t. If Caffrey were an enemy, he would know not to talk at all. But Caffrey is something else, and Clint has no idea how to keep him happy. He goes with, “He suggested ‘Romeo and Juliet’ next. I looked at it, but—“

“Everyone in it sounds like they got high on some bad helium, or something equally ridiculous?”

Clint blinks. He’s seen Caffrey make other people laugh, but he’s never been on the receiving end of one of his jokes. He admits, “I don’t understand it.”

“Most people don’t, their first time.” Caffrey’s smile is reminiscent, but Clint isn’t privy as to what he’s remembering. Caffrey continues, “Mostly, you just have to know that it’s about two kids whose families don’t like each other falling in love. Think of what would happen if Liddel and Ortiz decided to marry each other.”

The image of the two youngest and most ambitious of the gangbangers and Mexicans, respectively, deciding they are meant for each other makes Clint smile. He almost feels as though he wants to laugh, but he can’t precisely remember how. “That would be...”

Caffrey does laugh, smooth but not mean. “Yeah.”

They fall into a silence that’s not exactly uncomfortable, and Clint desperately wants to ask Caffrey why he needs the GED, what will happen to him if he can’t manage it, but he knows better, knows his rights. Instead he says, “My last practice test in geometry came back with a seventy-six percent.”

“Haven’t you only been studying that for a month?”

“Six weeks, on and off.”

“Impressive,” Caffrey says, and Clint fights his utterly stupid desire to preen. It’s just a practice test. And from what Dmitri tells him, that score only places him as average amongst GED takers. It’s hardly as if Clint’s some kind of genius, or really, even all that far above actually stupid.

Still, Clint can’t keep himself from saying, “Thanks,” and looking away before Caffrey sees his blush. It’s Caffrey, who seems to have eyes everywhere, so he probably notices anyway, but for whatever reason, Clint likes to try and pretend as though he has some pride left when he’s around Caffrey. Maybe it’s the way Caffrey allows for it.

The thought is a step beyond terrifying, so Clint doesn’t think about it, just pushes it to the corner of his brain where so many of his fears and concerns have been relegated over the past five years.

“Did you like ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’?” Caffrey asks, perfectly conversational.

Clint raises his head and says, “I liked Scout. I liked the way she wasn’t what anyone expected her to be, and how Atticus loved her anyway.”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Caffrey shares his favorite parts of the book, drawing out more of Clint’s responses, and Clint forgets, for that short period of time, to be cold or lonely or scared. When he has to go back in, go back to Gretchenko, he remembers, and he knows he should be angry at himself for the indulgence, but instead, he tucks it with the memories he doesn’t want anyone to have, _won’t_ let anyone have, and pretends it won’t end badly for him.

*

It takes him three weeks to read ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ and he only understands the portions that other people explain to him. A lot of people die for no reason at all, and only the people he doesn’t like end up living.

His cold takes a month to fade, and even after it’s gone, his lungs feel tighter than they used to. When it starts to warm up Gretchenko forbids him from going outside. Clint’s getting used to a new pattern of the seasons, regulated by an underutilized air conditioning and a heating system that’s insufficient to control the sheer size of the prison. 

It’s March when Clint figures out why Caffrey likes ‘Romeo and Juliet’ so damn much. The first Sunday Caffrey doesn’t go to visiting hours, he visits Clint instead. When Neal stops at Gretchenko’s cell, Clint’s naked and on all fours, Gretchenko’s feet up on his back. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Caffrey says. Clint stares at the cement floor underneath his splayed hands. Gretchenko rearranges his legs, kicking Clint in the kidneys. “It has a certain... _je ne sais quoi_ about it.”

“In my house, you speak English, or you speak Russian,” Gretchenko says. 

“I’ll speak whatever the hell I want,” Caffrey says calmly. Clint’s stomach clenches unpleasantly. Caffrey’s usually smarter than this. “I’m going to borrow Clint for the afternoon.” 

Gretchenko slowly takes his feet off Clint’s back and stands up. Clint glances over his shoulder and sees Gretchenko towering over Caffrey, who looks unimpressed. Caffrey hasn’t gotten his ass kicked yet and even though Clint knows Caffrey’s overdue for a beating, he feels inexplicably unhappy that it’s about to happen on his watch. 

“You want a pair of shoes,” Caffrey says. “Size 13. Preferably black. Leather. Give me Clint for the day, and you’ll have them within a week. Deal?” Gretchenko looks Caffrey up and down and then grunts his approval. A nice pair of shoes is probably the most Clint’s ever been traded for. He feels kind of flattered, but mostly, he’s just dreading the punishment he’s going to get when he returns. 

Gretchenko allows him to grab his clothing, and he dresses in the hall as quickly as he can. Caffrey averts his eyes while Clint gets dressed. Maybe Caffrey thinks he’s ugly, with his protruding ribs and all the bruising, the stark, uneven tattoo; maybe that’s why Caffrey doesn’t want to fuck him. 

Caffrey leads him into the library and settles into Clint’s favorite table in the back corner. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Clint’s feeling angry, resentful, terrified of what’ll happen when he goes back, so he just replies, “No, you shouldn’t have.” He tenses for a blow that doesn’t come. 

“I have someone on the outside,” Caffrey says, not looking at Clint. Clint knows this already. Caffrey has to have serious connections—and serious money—to maneuver the way he does on the inside. 

It takes him a bit to work out why Caffrey’s bringing it up now. “Your Sunday afternoons,” Clint says. Visiting hours are almost over. Caffrey nods. “They okay?”

“Yeah. I got a message that she’s on a job. ” Caffrey holds up a Christmas themed tin container, which must contain a message. “I don’t know where she is, or how long she’ll be gone.” 

“I bet she’ll be fine,” Clint says, feeling like he should comfort Caffrey somehow. The man looks pathetic. Somehow, though, offering Caffrey a blowjob seems like it would be inappropriate right now. Maybe later. “If she’s with you, she’s gotta be something special.” 

Neal—Caffrey—smiles. “She really is.” He pries open the tin, which turns out to be full of cookies. “These aren’t from her—she’s useless in the kitchen—but they’re from another friend. They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Be careful when you bite into them, he may have baked a file into one of them.” Caffrey sounds like he’s kidding. “Would you like one?” 

“You got a lot of friends,” Clint says, selecting the smallest cookie and breaking it in half. 

“Two,” Caffrey says with a laugh. “The rest of my acquaintances aren’t exactly breaking down the prison doors to curry favor these days.” 

Clint takes a bite of his cookie and does not feel sorry for himself. He’s had friends before too. In the circus, he’d had Barney and the Swordsman. Some of the bigger kids had let him tag along sometimes, taught him how to pick pockets. Probably he could say that some of the kids from the orphanage had been friends. There were a few of them that had been even smaller than Clint, and, when he’d managed to grab enough food to share a bit of it, they seemed to like him. 

“What’s her name?” he asks, around a mouthful of cookie that he might never swallow, it tastes _so good_.

“Kate. Kate Moreau.” 

“It’s, uh—that’s a pretty name.” 

Caffrey looks down at the cookie in his hands that he hasn’t tasted yet. Clint sneaks a second one out of the tin while Caffrey’s distracted. “How long you two been together?” 

Caffrey’s a good storyteller, and he spends the afternoon teaching Clint about being in love. Caffrey’s love story sounds even stupider than ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ but at least, when the evening alarms go off and Caffrey’s story winds down, everybody’s still alive. Clint wonders how Caffrey has gotten through so much of his life without learning that people always leave. He doesn’t seem stupid, but then, it’s not an easy lesson to learn.

Gretchenko spends the evening with his hands wrapped around Clint’s throat, framing the barbed wire with a black ring of bruises. 

Next Sunday, Kate comes back, and Caffrey doesn’t come see Clint. Not that he minds. Not that he’d expected anything else. Not that he cares that Kate came back, like no one has ever done for Clint. He thinks that maybe his life and Caffrey’s life are just from different genres (genres like _fiction_ and _nonfiction_ , which he knows from shelving books that he might one day read). Clint stays on his hands and knees all day, Gretchenko treating him worse than he’d treat actual furniture. Somehow, he still manages to be happy for Caffrey.

*

Caffrey generally stops by the library on Tuesday afternoons. The warden has some kind of standing meeting at that time, and Caffrey’s not needed, so he comes by to help Clint work or study or do whatever needs doing. Clint has gotten so used to his presence, he’s kind of surprised to realize Caffrey has never seen him write the day Caffrey sits down next to Clint while he’s taking a mock GED and asks, “Why are you writing with your non-dominant hand?”

Clint looks over at him, and down at his right hand, gripping the pencil. He knows it’s stupid to deny it, but the orphanage drilled the wrongness of his left-handed dominance into him with rulers to his hands, painful holds on his ear, and ringing humiliation. Most people don’t notice anymore. Clint’s trained his right side up pretty well by this point.

Clint’s beginning to think Caffrey has some kind of sixth sense. It fits into his theory about Neal’s life being shelved somewhere between fairy tales and mystery thrillers. He says, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Caffrey, who very rarely touches Clint, and generally only does so when Clint can’t jerk away, like that time in the infirmary, puts a gentle hand to Clint’s wrist. “Clint. Write with your other hand.”

“Can’t,” Clint lies. He has to concentrate not to arch into the touch, which isn’t hurting, like the total slut he is. He doesn’t let himself think about how it might be, to have Caffrey touch him this way and not be asking for anything, just giving something of himself to Clint.

Caffrey wrests the pencil from Clint and takes some of his scrap paper. With his left hand, he writes fluently, easily, “Why not?”

Clint looks at the hand with the pencil still in it, then up at Neal. “You’re left handed.”

Caffrey shakes his head. “Ambidextrous. Needed it for my profession.”

Clint nods, thinking of all the times he’s been required to give two handjobs while his mouth was occupied, his mind on other things. The use of both hands in an equal capacity has probably saved his life in here, at least once or twice. “Yeah, it’s useful.”

“Nonetheless,” Caffrey presses, “when you’re working at something that already calls for your full attention and doesn’t necessitate the use of a non-dominant hand, using the dominant frees up brain energy, no matter how strong you’ve made the other side.”

Clint runs a finger over the pencil. Caffrey speaks up again, “Plus, whoever told you you were devil spawn because of it is probably getting a well-deserved roasting in hell right now for being an epic fuckhead, so you should think about training yourself out of believing their bullshit.”

Caffrey doesn’t swear a lot, so the few times Clint has heard it always catch him off-guard. He recovers himself with a smirk. “Didn’t know you were so religious.”

Caffrey laughs, but says, “Use your left hand.”

He leaves, then, sauntering off to say a few things to the others and make his way back to the warden’s office. Clint hesitates for several minutes, but eventually he reaches out and grabs the pencil up in his left hand, unable to help looking around to see if anyone has noticed. He twirls it a little, daydreaming just a bit about the history teacher who’d hit Clint’s knuckles with the ruler so hard they’d bled jumping around, trying to get away from rulers as big as he is all taking their turn at beating the shit out of him. He knows the image is childish, but it makes him feel a little bit better, the same way writing the answers with his left hand does.

When he grades the exam, it’s a passing score.

*

The morning Clint is scheduled to take the exam, he gets nervous, doesn’t pay as much attention to his morning duties as he normally would, and accidentally scrapes Gretchenko’s cock with his teeth. It’s not even enough to make the man grunt, but Clint knows he’s going to regret it.

When Clint has swallowed, Gretchenko pulls him up by his hair, smiles the smile that makes Clint want to shit himself, even after all this time and says, “Such good service deserves a reward, don’t you think?”

Clint doesn’t even bother to reply. He knows better. Gretchenko’s smile widens and Clint internally curses himself because he’s obviously given something away without meaning to. Gretchenko caresses his cheek. “I have just the thing.”

Clint’s placed on his hands and knees and told not to move, so he doesn’t, not even when the needle passes through the skin of his scrotum and he vomits from the pain. He does not scream. Last time he screamed was the time he ended up in the infirmary for three weeks, studying chemistry. He has the test today, he cannot be incapacitated. He makes himself repeat the thought incessantly so as to keep quiet.

Gretchenko hands Clint the towel he’s been issued for the week and growls at him to clean his mess up. Clint does. It’s Tuesday, which means five days of walking to and from the shower naked, but that’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is taking the test, and passing it, despite his balls being on fire.

If there is one thing Clint cannot lose now, it is Caffrey’s protection. He doesn’t let himself think about why, or question what that means. It is true, and Clint will do what is necessary to maintain the situation as it stands.

He cannot stomach food at breakfast, even the thought making him woozy. Instead he limps to the library, where Dmitri and Khalid are both waiting for him, packet in hand. Khalid frowns at the limp, but Clint shakes his head and neither of them asks. He appreciates the tacit kindness.

They read him the instructions, as is required, despite the fact that he’s taken mock tests at least a hundred times and knows the instructions by heart. He opens to the front page and promptly panics, every bit of information gone in a rush of _stupidstupid, can’t do this, nothing but a hole_ and the agony of the new piercing flares up.

He switches the pencil to his left hand, closes his eyes and thinks of the way Caffrey squeezed his shoulder the day before, his genuine, “Good luck, but you won’t need it.”

He opens his eyes, rereads the first question, and knows the answer.

*

The piercing gets infected, of course, because Gretchenko’s not the world’s cleanest human being and 10-guage needles aren’t supposed to stay in someone’s scrotum. It’s the kind of thing Clint figures you have to know how to do to make it stick. He doesn’t even realize, just thinks it should hurt that much, until Gretchenko grabs his sack—not even maliciously, actually, for the guy—and Clint passes out, which, nicknames about his manliness aside, Clint isn’t really all that easy to force into unconsciousness by way of pain.

He won’t let the doctors take it out. It’s a fight, but somehow, finally just admitting, “You know it’ll go right back in and we’ll be here all over again, can’t we just save all of ourselves some time and effort?” gets the head doc to listen and keep him there while on IV antibiotics, until he’s well and healed up.

Caffrey comes and visits once or twice, when he gets a chance. He tells Clint about his “alleged” exploits, about the color of oceans all over the world, about the smell of good oil paint, how to tie a Windsor knot, and other frivolous things Clint has no use for, but could listen to Caffrey talk about all day long, and well into night.

On the second time, a Monday, Caffrey smuggles in sugar cookies in the shape of birds, with icing making them into parrots and cockateels. At least, that’s what Caffrey tells Clint they are. Clint doesn’t know much about birds, he just likes to watch them. Clint asks, “You like birds too?”

Caffrey shrugs. “I don’t dislike them. But the cookies were for you. My idea, Moz’s execution.”

Clint chokes on a cookie crumb. When he’s managed to get his voice back, even if he’s still blinking back tears, he asks, “How’d you know I like birds?”

It feels stupid saying it aloud, giving it to Caffrey, despite the fact that the other man clearly already knows. Caffrey, to his credit, responds softly. “The way you watched the sparrows in the yard during the winter. Only thing you really seemed to notice.”

Clint makes a mental note to be less obvious. If Gretchenko finds out, Clint can only imagine what will happen. Pleasure is, at best, a weapon in this place, and he’s done giving those to others. He takes another bite of the cookie. It’s soft and crumbles in his mouth and the icing tastes like butter and cream, tastes he didn’t realize he remembered.

Caffrey says, “Dogs are my thing. Slobbery and too-friendly and not at all the sleek cat that goes with the image.”

Clint’s not sure, but he thinks he’s just been handed a weapon, free of charge. The thought makes his stomach turn over and he has to swallow. Caffrey asks, “Clint?”

Clint just says, “Dogs are cool. My neighbor had one when I was a kid. It was...soft.”

There’s something off in Caffrey’s smile when he nods. “Soft and sweet.”

Caffrey holds out another cookie. Clint takes the offering.

*

Between the infirmary and Gretchenko’s personal idea of a welcome back party, Clint loses track of time. Time has never really mattered in here. It’s a good four years before he’s even up for parole, and Clint has long since stopped believing he’ll manage to get out early. Most days, the only difference the passage of time makes is in whether Clint’s cooped up inside the cement and iron or forced to go outside with the snow and barbed wire.

As such, he’s taken a bit off-guard when the envelope with his GED results arrives. He’s in the library when it happens. Conti, who delivers the mail, makes some comment about Clint having a husband on the outside too, now, which Clint ignores. The only pieces of mail he’s ever gotten in his life have been from the GED people, so he knows who it’s from.

He makes to open it and discovers he physically cannot. It’s strange, because Clint can make his body do almost anything at this point. Until this moment, he would have said anything, except maybe not scream at certain key moments. But the idea of ripping the flap from the glue makes his heart pound painfully and stops him from breathing.

Clint may not be book smart, but he knows how life works. He gets that if he didn’t pass this thing, Caffrey has no reason to keep up his...protection? Mentorship? Clint’s got no idea what Caffrey’s game is, only that a lot of the time, the sound of Caffrey’s voice, the way he gets Clint’s head out of this place for minutes at a time, are the only things Clint can hold onto during the bad days, the days when he forgets why he stopped trying to get himself killed.

Still, it’s not as if he can put this off forever. Sooner or later, someone who knows is going to ask if he got the results. He imagines he could lie, but that would only mean having them send them again.

Clint runs his finger along the side of the envelope and considers. He might have _some_ time; a few days, just to figure out how to go back to the way things were before, if he has to. He has plenty of hiding places in the library, spots he could tuck the envelope away in, and nobody would have to know any better.

And maybe—Clint knows he’s a stupid fuck for thinking it, but he can’t help it, no more than he can make himself open that envelope—maybe even if Caffrey doesn’t need him, if he’s no use and Caffrey’s protection becomes a thing of the past, maybe Caffrey will still talk with him. It couldn’t hurt. Caffrey’s safe, nobody’s fool enough to touch him, even without Kavanagh. Caffrey gets people things, he makes good things happen. He could spend time with Clint and not have bitch-status rub off on him.

Clint takes a deep breath. Yeah, Caffrey’s...he’s scary smart, and knows how to wield power, but he’s not cruel, Clint doesn’t think, at least. Clint’s pretty sure he knows cruel when he sees it, by this point.

Three days, he decides. Three days to prepare himself and to get a few more of Caffrey’s stories, just in case. Then he’ll open the envelope and see what’s inside.

*

On the third day, Clint lingers in the common area before heading to his cell. He knows it won’t end well for him, but Neal is sketching birds for him, talking about feeding pigeons in central park with Kate, and Clint will have these last moments for himself, fuck Gretchenko.

It’s worth it, too, even when Gretchenko dislocates Clint’s shoulder _while_ fucking him, and then makes him sleep with it out of place before setting it roughly in the morning. Clint skips breakfast, knowing if he allows himself to think about what he’s doing, he’ll put it off another day, then another. 

No, it has to be done, so he goes straight to the library and pulls the envelope out of its hiding place. He can’t breathe once his hands are on it, so he has to concentrate to get it open, pull out the sheet inside.

He reads the result four times, gasping in breaths. He’s still not certain he’s understanding when Dmitri comes in. Clint hands the paper to him, silently, then asks, “Am I— Did I really pass?”

Dmitri scans the sheet and then says, “Well, what’ya know? Our own high school graduate.”

The relief makes Clint dizzy and he has to close his eyes for a bit, regain equilibrium. When he has, he says, “Okay. Okay.”

Clint thanks Khalid, again, when he comes in, and Khalid smiles, which is rare. Clint agrees to take the book cart around, sore arm and all, because nothing can bother him, not right now, when, for once, he’s actually done something right.

He goes up to the warden’s office at the end. He’s saved the book he knows Caffrey will want anyway. Not that many others tend to like what Caffrey does, but Clint is careful, he keeps track of what Caffrey takes, requests new things that he thinks will catch his interest. Caffrey looks up when Clint comes in, says, “You do something to piss the others off?”

Antoine, the other Old Timer, usually takes the cart. Nobody fucks with Antoine, he’s like a grandfather to three-fourths the cons, and the ones for whom that’s not true know what would happen to them if they were caught in the act of trying anything with him. Clint shakes his head and pulls out the biography of Peggy Guggenheim that just came in. The copy is battered, but it’s a recently published book, which is almost impossible to get. He hands it over. “Thought you might enjoy. It looked interesting.”

Caffrey grins. “This is, wow. Fantastic, Clint. Thanks.”

Clint likes how Caffrey gets excited by little things, things Clint knows Caffrey could easily procure for himself, when other people think to do it for him. His reactions seem familiar in a way Clint doesn’t allow himself to consider. Clint puts a hand to his neck—the hand connected to the uninjured arm, because now that Clint can feel anything other than sheer terror, his shoulder is aching something fierce—and says, “I’m, uh, I’m ready for my next assignment.”

“Not until we—” Caffrey stops then. “When did you find out?”

“This morning.” Clint elides the whole part where he waited three days. It doesn’t matter, not really.

“Clint, that’s, why was that even the second thing you told me? We have to celebrate.”

Clint isn’t sure how to respond to that. “It’s just a GED. You said I needed it.”

Caffrey is quiet for a long moment. Finally he says, “You know how I take care of myself in here?”

Clint doesn’t understand the question, so he just shrugs. Caffrey nods. “I make sure to know everything. It’s not that simple, of course. There are certain people skills necessary, that sort of thing. But most important is the knowledge.”

“Okay,” Clint says.

"What I told you that first time we talked? That I was just trying to make things right? It was true. I hadn't paid attention to you before that, there'd been no reason to. You weren't a threat."

Clint silently adds, _Or of any use, _because Caffrey might be a whole lot better at figuring people out than Clint is, but Clint understands how the prison economy works enough to hear what Caffrey doesn't say.__

__Caffrey sighs, just a bit, looking tired for a moment. Then he draws himself up. "Afterward, though—I couldn't help but notice you. So I got to know you as best I could without getting close. You didn't seem to like when I got close and I wasn't trying to scare you."_ _

__Clint almost doesn't want to know, but he's learned to well that what he doesn't know _can_ hurt him. "What did you learn?"_ _

__Neal shrugs. "You were in the circus. 'Hawkeye: the world's greatest marksman.'" There's no flair to Neal's pronouncement, the way Clint knows there could be, if Neal wanted to mock. Neal says, "You're in on murder. My guess is the investigation was bungled, or you took the fall."_ _

__Clint _knows_ all this, thanks. It’s the first time someone else has, at least, someone not Barney. He wraps his arms around himself, feeling stiff and sore and terrified in a way he’s almost forgotten he can. “How do you know I didn’t kill him?”_ _

__“Neck broken. No arrows.”_ _

__"Maybe I just wasn't stupid enough to use a weapon that would immediately identify me."_ _

__"Maybe," Neal acknowledges. "But if that were the case, I think there'd be at least a few stories of you taking care of things in here that way, once or twice."_ _

__Clint gets it then, really gets what Caffrey means by “people skills.” It’s not the stupid way that some people can just read others, it’s something deeper, an ability to see patterns, to understand the way everything around him works. Coldly, he demands, “Your point?”_ _

__“You grew up in the circus, at least in early to late adolescence, if I've got my timeline correct. I figure you've maybe got a fourth or fifth grade education? And someone else killed your alleged victim, so you're pretty practiced at people hanging you out to dry.”_ _

__Clint bites his tongue, stops himself from defending Barney. He keeps his expression distant, hard._ _

__Caffrey continues, “You’re treated worse than a wild animal in here, have been for six years, and yet you worked your hardest and earned yourself the equivalent of a degree some people can’t manage with every advantage in life. Clint.”_ _

__Clint maybe can’t help the way he says, “You told me I had to. You told me—”_ _

__“I know. I know. Because it was the only way you would listen.” Caffrey’s smile is hard to understand, slightly bitter, bordering on sad. “Like I said, other skills.”_ _

__Clint closes his eyes for a second, tries to wrap his mind around this. His head hurts with what it might all mean, with the ways it opens him up to loss even worse than he’s been worried about these past few days. He thinks about the word “reparations,” which he’d learned somewhere in his studies, how he hadn’t believed the definition was right, how it hadn’t fit in with everything he knows about the world. It still doesn’t. He pushes all that aside and looks at Caffrey, asks, “What’s my next assignment?”_ _

__Clint doesn’t know what Caffrey hears in the question, but whatever it is, he gets a very mischievous look in his eyes, one that makes Clint wary and says, “To help me plan a celebration.”_ _

____

*

The yard’s empty except for them. It’s quiet out, in a way that it never is in summer, when there’s usually at least one game of basketball happening, as well as the usual flow of traffic around the weights, not to mention the political posturing and negotiations. There are two guards standing behind them, but Neal’s got a letter signed by the warden, allowing them private time outside. It’s hot, and sweat’s already dripping down Clint’s sides.

Clint’s got his teeth clenched so tight that his jaw’s aching. What’s Neal going to have him do for his next assignment, that needs this much buttering-up? Clint hasn’t refused him anything before, what could Neal possibly want from him that he wouldn’t automatically surrender? He tries to think of what he has that’s of any value, but can’t come up with anything. 

Neal leads him to a table and sits down on the bench. Clint settles down next to him. The silence is only broken by the sound of the guards shifting behind them (holding tasers, holding power, in Clint’s blind spot).

“Congratulations,” Neal says, holding out a box that he seems to have pulled from thin air. Caffrey the magician. The box isn’t wrapped, so it doesn’t look like presents always look in pictures and commercials. It’s a cardboard box with the flaps taped down that looks like it came from the shop. But it’s—there are drawings of birds sketched all over it. It’s Neal’s art, which Clint’s only caught glimpses of before, on the few occasions that he’s been summoned into Kavanagh’s cell. 

“It’s for me?” 

“Yeah,” Neal says, pushing it towards him again. Clint’s been forcing his body to do unnatural things for years now, even before prison, so it’s almost easy to take the present from Neal’s hands. He almost drops it once he has it, it’s unexpectedly heavy and cold. 

“There’s more?” he asks. 

“No, just this,” Neal says. Clint bites his lip, not sure whether he should explain to Caffrey that he thought the box _was_ the present, or if he can risk accidentally appearing ungrateful. He knows the exact moment Neal figures it out, because Neal reaches over, traces one of the birds. They’re just blue ballpoint, but graceful, in flight. “I can keep the box for you,” Neal says. “I have a feeling that it might not be safe with Gretchenko.” 

“Whatever you want,” Clint says. The box won’t be safe with Gretchenko. Clint isn’t even safe with Gretchenko, there’s no way he could protect anything else. This is enough, though, just having it now. Neal made this for him. It’s almost too much. 

“Open it.” 

Clint opens the box carefully, trying to look like he doesn’t care if he rips up the flaps or pulls some of the cardboard up with the tape. He tears one of the birds in half, right at the seam, and his fingers stutter before he gets it open and pulls his present out. . 

There’s ice cream in the box. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough flavor, and two plastic spoons. Two spoons, so Neal’s planning on sharing it, and there’s just the two of them, so he’s got to be planning on sharing it with Clint—unless this is a new assignment, a new taunt, unless this is when Neal turns on him. 

“Congratulations,” Neal says, a broad smile on his face. 

Clint stares at the ground and bites the inside of his cheek. He says, “Thanks,” but his voice comes out rough, it almost cracks. 

It sounds strange. Being congratulated. Saying “Thanks” and meaning it. No one’s ever done anything like this before. The last time Clint had done anything praiseworthy, he’d been on his knees, taking Gretchenko’s cock and three fingers without making a sound. He’s been a party favor, he’s been a centerpiece, he’s been a fucking doormat, splayed out and vulnerable, but there has never been a celebration for him. 

He earned this gift, he reminds himself. He earned this. 

“What’s my next assignment?” he asks. There’s condensation starting to creep down his fingers. Neal takes the pint from his still fingers and pries off the lid. The ice cream’s soft, starting to melt at the edges. Clint stares at the ice cream and tries not to lick his lips. He won’t taste it until he finds out if Neal’s next request is going to be something Clint can supply. 

Neal pulls something out of his pocket. It’s a small paperback book, not even a library one, titled _Of Mice and Men_. “Read it,” Neal says, his stern voice at odds with his grin. “Then, we’ll talk.” 

Clint nods and takes the book. He’ll read it, as fast as he can. It’s small enough that he’ll be able to hide it. Maybe he’ll tear a piece of the box off to use as a bookmark. There’s probably an assignment scrawled in the margin somewhere, or a lesson buried in the body of the text that Clint will have to search for. 

Neal presses a spoon into his hand and Clint slowly digs into the ice cream. He hasn’t had ice cream since...the orphanage, probably; there hadn’t been any ice cream booths at the circus, just funnel cakes and popcorn, and Clint had stolen as much of those as he could. 

Maybe it’s just the time that’s passed, or maybe it’s the heat of the day, or maybe it’s the way the plastic spoon feels in his left hand, but the ice cream is the best thing he’s ever eaten.

*

_Two Years Later_

Clint’s just finished _The Prince and the Pauper_ when he makes it to the library on Monday, having managed to hide during breakfast and finish up the last chapter so that he and Neal can meet at their regular time that afternoon to discuss. Clint’s got a list of things he wants to talk about regarding the book, but the list goes out of his head the minute Neal walks into the library.

Clint’s not overflowing with skills, or anything, but reading people has saved his life more than a dozen times in the last year alone and far more before that, so he’s pretty good at figuring out when something is wrong. And he pays more attention to Neal than most. Neal has an easygoing smile in place and is walking with the slide that defines his movements, but there is a five o’clock shadow on his jaw and a slight bruising around his eyes.

Clint isn’t entirely sure how to react. On the one hand, if it were him, he’d want someone to notice, someone to help. He wouldn’t expect it, but he’d want it. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want someone to draw attention to it in any noticeable way. Also, it’s not as if Clint has any way of being of use to Neal.

Nonetheless, he finds himself asking, “Something...on your mind?”

Neal’s smile broadens, deflects. “Other than Mark Twain’s brilliance?”

Clint can’t decide what he owes Neal. It’s possible he owes it to him not to push, to allow Neal his privacy. Alternatively, it’s possible he owes him a duty to make him talk, make him spill before whatever is going on can fester inside. The only thing that is clear is that he owes Neal. He tries, “If there was something else, I wouldn’t mind talking about the book some other time.”

If Neal takes the opening, Clint will listen. If he does not, Clint will help distract him. Neal opens his mouth, then shuts it. Finally he speaks, his voice low and tone uncertain in a way Clint has never heard, a way that terrifies Clint, “Kate left.”

“Kate—” Clint stops, does his best to think before he responds, despite what feels like an electric shock running straight through his system. He’s usually more careful than this. “Do you mean Kate had to leave for a long job?”

Neal shakes his head. Clint can see, now, the way his shoulders are tight. Neal tells him. “She— Something happened. There’s something, I think she’s in trouble.”

Clint feels his breath catch. If there is one thing he has come to understand about Neal, it is that Neal will protect what is his, or be destroyed trying. And Kate, more than anything, is Neal’s. Even entirely sure he does not want to know the answer to his next question, he forces himself to ask, “You’re sure?”

Neal’s smile turns bitter. “You remember what I said, ‘other skills.’”

Clint, for the most part, remembers everything important, and Neal’s capabilities are very, very important. “I remember.”

“I know her. She’s in trouble.”

Clint swallows down everything inside himself, every desire and fear. “What are you going to do?”

Clint has seen Neal sad and angry and even a little scared, which he knows is far more than most people have seen from Neal Caffrey. He has never seen him lost. But there is a slight film of uncertainty coloring Neal’s words as he looks at Clint and admits, “I have to try and protect her.”

And Clint may not know, exactly, what that means, but he knows Neal cannot do it inside. Deep down, he knows precisely what Neal is telling him. He knows he is about to lose the only thing that matters in this place, the only thing keeping him safe, giving him a touchstone of human connection and sanity. Neal only has five and a half months left on his sentence, Clint has been silently counting down for a while, now, he just hadn’t expected it to come sooner. 

He takes a breath, resets his expectations. He says, “If you need any help,” and manages to accompany it with an ironic smile.

Neal’s smile is strangely kind in return, carrying an underlying hint of something Clint thinks he should be able to recognize but cannot. Neal ruffles Clint’s hair and Clint, because he needs this, _needs_ it for the next two and a half years, more, of being on his own again, arches into the touch. Neal’s hand stills, staying for just a moment before giving into the rules of this place, his ever-present caution against making more trouble for Clint.

Neal whispers, “Thanks.”

Clint says, “You’re welcome,” and means it.

*

Neal does most of the planning and preparation on his own, but he shares his thoughts with Clint, shows him the logic behind his schemes. It’s a new lesson for Clint, in escape strategy and in accepting someone’s trust, but it’s a lesson he doesn’t want to learn. New books pile up in Neal’s cell, and a few guards who Neal’s not had dealings with before take a sudden interest in him, dropping things off, taking things from him.

It’s a new and terrible experience. Watching someone leave him. Clint’s almost grateful for Gretchenko’s cruelty, since it distracts him from the fact that he’s about to be alone again. His mother and father had died unexpectedly, wrapped up in each other and booze and then the metal frame of his father’s car. Barney had left him in the holding cell, knowing Clint would be unable to follow him. 

He should have seen Barney’s desertion coming, but, despite Neal’s best efforts, Clint’s just not, and never has been, very bright. 

He sees Neal leaving, and he tries to smile through it, tries to help, tries to help Neal leave him. Kate’s important. Kate’s more important than Clint, which is such an obvious fact that he shouldn’t have to remind himself of it, but sometimes—when Gretchenko’s spitting on him, or taking his food during meals, when Clint finishes the last book Neal assigned him and Neal doesn’t notice—sometimes, he wants Neal to stay.

Neal thinks the beard he’s grown is a disguise. Clint, who identified Neal as a pretty boy on day one and hasn’t revised the opinion since, doesn’t think that some hastily grown facial hair is going to do a bit of good. The uniform, yes, and Neal’s attitude—the way he can change his walk and posture at the drop of a hat—will go a long ways. But Clint knows the path Caffrey’s planning on taking to get to the outside. He's going through the license plate factory, which, on a normal Thursday—Neal's planned escape day—would be staffed by the population from the D wing, while the Russians are diverted to the actual tin-processing plant. On Tuesday, Clint finds out—because Gretchenko's pleased, he hates the plant—that D's had some disciplinary issues and is on lockdown, which means the Russians are in the factory full-time. Clint's pretty sure Neal doesn't know, there's no reason he would. Neal can get information from guards when he needs it, but obviously they've been kept out of the loop in this instance, and they're the ones who would know this information, aside from the prisoners affected.

There’s no way Neal be able to walk through the license plate factory, past every single Russian in the prison, without someone taking notice and calling the alarm. Neal can’t bribe or leverage his way through that factory. If he’s leaving, his influence no longer holds any sway. He can’t give away his plan like that, and there’s no other way to justify him walking through there in a fucking guard uniform. 

Clint wonders if a contingency like this occurred to Neal when he told Clint his plans. Maybe this has always been Neal's price, in exchange for everything he's given Clint. Neal can’t get himself through the factory without a huge risk of discovery. Clint, though—Clint can get Neal through that room. 

Wednesday, he pulls Clint aside during breakfast. They sit together for the rest of the meal, and stay together during every free period that day. Quietly, carefully, Neal tells Clint everything he knows about every other inmate in the prison. Who’s got weaknesses for certain outside goods, who’s working on appeals, who is harmless and who to watch out for. A lot of it Clint already knows, but some of it—some of it might save his life. 

“I hope you find her soon,” Clint says. “I hope she’s okay.” He might even be telling the truth. It’s hard to tell these days. 

“Take care of yourself,” Neal says. “When you get out of here, go to the city, and stay there until one of my contacts can find you. We’ll see each other again.” Then Neal pulls him in close, and wraps his arms around Clint’s back. It takes Clint a second to realize that Neal’s hugging him. He’s just about figured out how to hug back when Neal lets go. 

“Good luck,” Clint says. His arms feel empty and his chest hurts. He walks away before Neal can do or say anything else. 

In any case, Clint has work to do. 

He doesn’t have a lot of time before lights out, so he moves quickly. There’s a group of gangbangers which formed in the last year who have never seen the Russians in action. Two of them have watched Clint closely, in a way that now—thanks to Neal—Clint knows how to take advantage of. 

Two days ago Clint bribed Bobby, the cheapest guy on the night shift, with the promise of Neal’s money. He makes his way down the wrong corridor, and slips into a cell that doesn’t belong to him. It’s only a few seconds before the bars close behind him. He’d cut it a bit close. 

“Hi,” he says, grinning, one of his thumbs already slipping under the waistband of his uniform, tugging it down his hip. “I heard you boys were getting lonely.”

*

The next day, the Russians aren’t in the machine shop. Most of them couldn’t care less about Clint, but all of them understand the need to protect property. Gretchenko, though—Gretchenko, in his own, twisted way, cares about Clint. At the very least, he cares about the status having claimed Clint brings, about maintaining that status. He cares that Clint knows who owns him.

Malyugin intercepts Clint on the way to breakfast, but Clint has planned this, so he shrugs and accompanies him with ease. He thinks of the way Neal walks into situations where his only power is his ability to manipulate and tries to mimic that confidence. What he does not do is think about what is about to happen.

The gangbangers, for all that they thought they weren’t, were babies, amateurs, sweet little vanilla cupcakes. Clint almost smiles at the thought, except he doesn’t want Malyugin to pound him into the ground before the festivities even start. Malyugin is already looking at him oddly, but Clint thinks that might just be because Clint’s never been stupid enough to step out on Gretchenko before. It doesn’t matter, Malyugin won’t disobey Gretchenko, not in this. Neal taught him that, too, how to read the power relations and precisely how they work.

Malyugin takes him to the utilities closet and Clint forces out all the other times he’s been there, because if he’s going to do this, he has to start from scratch. Gretchenko has a grip on Clint’s hair before Clint even sees him and Clint goes with the force. This is easy, he’s used to this.

Gretchenko draws Clint right near to him and hisses, “Ты мой.”

Clint makes himself listen, translate. Of course, Gretchenko telling Clint that Clint is his is nothing new, nor really important. Clint knows that, of course.

“Я их научу.” 

_They will learn._ Clint understands the implicit threat really includes him. He’s stupid, but not about this, about these things. He almost feels guilty for bringing the ‘bangers, who are trussed up and clearly aware they’re screwed, into this. Almost, but considering the way he’s already sore and what is at stake, not quite.

Gretchenko orders him to strip, then grabs him back into the same position. He reaches down and fingers Clint harshly, pressing roughly on his prostate in a way that forces Clint into hardness. Clint almost loses his erection from pure fear at that point, because of all the things Gretchenko has done, he has never, ever needed Clint hard. 

Ivazov has arranged the ‘bangers on their backs, their knees bound to their shoulders, their hands bound beneath them. Clint finds himself blinking, realizing what Gretchenko is ordering. And he has to give it to the guy, if the Russians leave their prey alive, getting raped by the prison bitch will probably fuck with them more than almost anything.

Because he knows he has to, because he knows he’s already fucked six ways from Sunday, Clint hopes he manages. He hasn’t thought about sex as an active participant in years. He doesn’t even know if he’s interested at all anymore, but he’s certainly not in this instance. Gretchenko shoves him forward.

They’ve left the ‘bangers ungagged, so that they can spit hatred and pleas at Clint, one right after another. Clint blocks them out. Neal is what is important now, with the Russians a close second.

Driving in to screams almost causes him to lose his erection, but Clint has done harder things for less reason, so he focuses on what has to be done. He’s pulled away by Gretchenko, set on the other ‘banger as Ivazov disinterestedly finishes Clint’s job on the first. It’s somewhat easier now that he’s figured out how to do it. He’s pulled away again before he comes, and it aches a little, but Clint’s distracted with paying attention.

Ivazov looks at where Clint is standing, naked and hard, keeps his gaze on Clint as he flicks out his knife and—

Clint almost vomits, watching Ivazov go to work. What he does not do is look away. He knows better. Malyugin waits until Ivazov is done and starts in. Ivazov’s ‘banger has lost consciousness, Neal knows Malyugin’s will as well. Then there will be nothing to distract the three of them from him. 

In fact, they drag the two bodies—they’re still breathing, but Clint can’t think of them any other way—to the side. 

Ivazov walks over to a table and picks up a hammer and the longest nails Clint has ever seen. Gretchenko laughs as Clint stiffens, says with a certain sick glee, “А теперь, детка, твоя очередь.”

 _Clint’s turn._ As if Clint hadn’t known. With a glance at the bodies—and they’re bleeding enough, they probably will be nothing more than that before this is over—Clint wonders if this is when Gretchenko kills him. He knew it was a possibility when he decided to take care of Neal. He doesn’t regret it. If anything, it would be kind of nice, now that Neal’s gone. For that reason alone, Clint’s pretty sure he’ll survive.

Gretchenko pushes him to the wall face first, takes one wrist and pins it to the wall. “Do. Not. Move.”

Ivazov places a nail in the middle of Clint’s hand and with one strong swing of the hammer, has nailed Clint to the wall. Clint screams, he can’t help it, his vision going dark, but he fights to stay awake, terrified of what would happen if Gretchenko let him hang from the hand. Ivazov hammers again and Clint throws up on himself.

A third hammer, and they move to Clint’s other hand. He does black out, a little, on the first swing, but comes back to the pain of pulling himself down on the nails. When they move to his feet, Clint begs, promises things he probably cannot give, but it’s fine, because he knows he has no chance of stopping anything. They’re just words. Clint has never had anything worth someone’s attention.

(Neal paid attention.)

By the end of it, Clint is hysterical, pulling at his hands and feet even though it makes it ten times worse. Gretchenko shows a sort of mercy by pressing into Clint’s neck, which forces him to still somewhat. The first pass of the knife over the knobs of his spine, the area surrounding it, Clint barely even feels. Then, after a moment, the pain registers, deep and throbbing.

Malyugin tells him, without much inflection, “So that next time, others will not be confused about who owns you.”

Clint has seen Gretchenko’s name in cyrillic before. He’s relatively sure, as much as he can be with a knife cutting it into his spine, that “Греченко,” rather than its English counterpart is what he will bear to others, presuming it doesn’t cause him to bleed out.

Gretchenko takes his time. Clint swallows blood and thinks, _wouldn’t want to mess this up._

Ivazov says, “We would not wish this to become infected,” as Gretchenko steps away, and Clint’s world is set on fire. Through the sheer, unrelenting agony, he realizes that they’ve pressed salt into the wounds, that it is nothing more dangerous than a condiment. Clint can barely breathe, he’s not entirely certain that he’s managing.

They leave him after that. Time grows fuzzy and irrelevant. Either he will be found or he will not. That is not the issue. When one of the worst mornings he’s ever had stretches into an even longer afternoon, and no alarm is sounded—Clint smiles.

*

He doesn’t die.

He wakes up in the hospital, face down in the bed, his arms and legs restrained. He fights, instinctively and uselessly, until the pain in his limbs presses him back into sleep. He manages to keep his fear under control the next time. The sheets are clean under his cheek. White. No pillow, but, since he’s on his stomach, that’s probably for the best. 

His hands and feet are entirely numb now, but his spine burns. There’s a word etched there. A name. There’s a tattoo on his neck and a piercing in his dick and a name on his skin that isn’t his own. There are holes in his hands and feet. 

He laughs until he falls asleep again. No one comes to check on him.

He dreams that he’s back in the circus. Trick Shot, who had always liked Barney better, is standing over him, his bow drawn. His quiver is almost empty and Clint’s pinned to the ground, spread-eagled, the arrow shafts speared through his palms and feet. Trick Shot’s not laughing, but Barney is. The dream morphs after that, into something ridiculous involving cotton candy and sandals, something that ends with Clint picking up a knife and carving _Neal Caffrey_ on his own body. 

The next time he wakes, someone is there. A nurse, adjusting his IV. Clint grunts, unable to get any words out of his dry mouth, his hoarse throat. She brings him some water. As soon as he can talk again, he asks her if his hands will ever work again. If his feet will support his weight. 

Her face creases inwards with worry. “We’ve done the best we can,” she says. “Now we just need to wait and see.” She pats him on the shoulder before she leaves. 

It’s odd. How much it hurts. His hands and feet are still numb, only a dull pressure at the end of his arms and legs, holding him down when he forgets how pointless it is and tries to run. 

Some part of him, he’s learning, facedown in the hospital bed, apparently some part of him had been looking forward to getting out of prison. He could have joined another circus, worked at an archery range, he might even have been able to hook himself up with some sort of escort business, or find a good streetcorner. He knows what he’s good at: shooting and fucking. 

Now he can’t shoot, and he’ll only be able to interest people who don’t mind that Clint’s already claimed. Labeled. Defiled.

He’s alone and in some new kind of pain he doesn’t know how to push away and he just lost his last bit of hope, which he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding on to.

Neal’s gone. Neal made it. He repeats the thought to himself over and over again, reminds himself that’s enough.

*

The federal government doesn’t really enjoy paying for convicted felons’ hospital bills, so Clint’s back in prison well before he’s finished with physical therapy, or even before the worst of the healing to his hands and feet has progressed to the extent that the hospital considers it wise to release him. Clint finds he does not care. Not much seems to make a hell of a lot of difference.

At least, that’s what he thinks until he is processed and has sat down on the first bench he reaches once in gen pop. The prison system wouldn’t spring for a motorized wheelchair and Clint couldn’t control a manual one in the shape his hands are in, so he’s on crutches instead, which is hard on both his hands and feet. His back isn’t terribly happy either, but it’s the smallest of his problems. 

He’s sitting on the bench, considering the stairs necessary to make it to the library, when Neal comes and sits down next to him. Clint closes his eyes, thinking maybe the drugs are still fucking him up, although there’s been no prior indication of this. He opens them again and Neal says, “Clint.”

Neal’s thinner than Clint remembers, sharper, and his voice is tight, filled with something Clint thinks might be regret. Clint mumbles. “Nothing.”

Neal puts a hand to Clint’s shoulder and it’s real and warm and gentle and Clint loses it. “It was all for fucking _nothing._ ”

Neal opens his mouth to say something, but Clint can’t listen, can’t— it doesn’t even matter that Neal is back, with his touching that doesn’t require anything from Clint, and his stories that take Clint away and everything Clint was going to miss. What matters is that Clint is a fucking cripple and Neal didn’t even make it.

Clint tries to stand up, forgetting the pain, forgetting everything, until he can’t support himself, and crumbles to the ground. Neal gets down on the floor with him, which doesn’t even make sense, Neal doesn’t go to the floor for anyone. Someone is screaming, and Clint pushes at Neal, away, up, away from Clint, from this place, from the floor.

Someone is still screaming and then Neal is talking, quickly, quickly, to guards, but they don’t seem to be listening, which is funny, because everyone always listens to Neal. And now someone is laughing, laughing, and Clint’s back hurts and then nothing hurts at all.

*

The infirmary is maybe his least favorite place in the prison, not counting the utilities closet. The closet’s got thicker walls, but the infirmary’s got more pointy toys. That’s where he wakes up, barely conscious and pumped full of drugs. The doctor makes him move his fingers and toes—in ways the physical therapist at the hospital had expressly forbidden—and then sends him back to gen pop. The guards drag him, which he’s actually grateful for.

They toss him in Gretchenko’s cell and throw his crutches in after him. Gretchenko smiles at him, sneers, “С возвращением!”

Clint takes the hint implied in “welcome back,” hobbling forward, leaving the crutches on the floor, each step sending spikes of pain through his legs. There’s blood soaking through the bandages by the time he’s standing in front of Gretchenko. 

Gretchenko reaches out and holds Clint’s hand. Neal had touched Clint, kind of like this. Gently. Almost romantically. Gretchenko’s grip starts to tighten, in the way that Neal’s never had, in the way Clint expects. 

He pulls Clint into bed and tells him to get on all fours. Hands and knees. He tears the bandages off of Clint’s back and scrapes his fingernails over the marks there. Gretchenko holds Clint’s hands while he fucks him, in some twisted romantic parody, crooning endearments in Clint’s ear and saying he missed him. Clint can’t tell what part of his body hurts more—his hands, supporting both their weight, bleeding out onto the mattress, his cramping feet, Gretchenko’s mark, or the cock scraping him raw inside. 

Neal’s still there. In his single cell, a couple of hallways away. Still inside the same prison walls that Clint’s been looking at for eight years. 

Gretchenko finishes and leaves Clint alone on the bunk. Clint curls up as best he can, pulling his limbs into a fetal position, trying to trick himself into thinking he’ll be able to protect himself in any way.

*

Neal’s waiting for him at breakfast. He stares down Gretchenko, his face harsh and cold instead of charming. Gretchenko still backs away, but not without a parting grin that makes Clint’s insides twist.

“Are you okay?” Neal asks. 

“Sure.” 

“What did you—I mean, I heard from a couple of people, but none of them knew the whole story.” 

“I fucked up,” Clint says, staring at his tray. He should eat something. He’s still losing weight, has been since it became an ordeal just to hold a fork.

Neal puts his hand on Clint’s wrist and Clint flinches. He hasn’t done that before. Not since Caffrey became Neal. “I’m sorry,” Neal says. 

“Did you even get out?” Clint asks. “Was she even in trouble?” 

“I got out,” Neal says, staring at his hands. “I got to our old apartment, like I planned, and...”

Clint stares at him, waiting, but Neal doesn’t say anything else. Clint’s kind of pissed he has to ask for more, given that this is his story too, now; he too has sacrificed for Kate, a myth he’s never met. “And what?”

“She wasn’t there. She left me a message. Told me to leave. FBI showed up pretty quick after that.” 

“What’d they give you? For the escape?”

“Four years,” Neal says quietly. Clint picks up his fork slowly, in his right hand; he’s trying to rest his left as long as he can, following his therapist’s advice. Four years means Neal will be here when Clint’s sentence ends. It means Clint won’t be alone. Neal will be there while Clint heals, while he recovers, will help him re-establish some sort of balance with Gretchenko— “But I’m working on a deal with Burke, the agent who arrested me, so maybe I’ll get a work release before then.” 

Clint sets his fork down and closes his eyes. “Get out if you can,” he says, feeling the familiar burn of Gretchenko’s glare. Neal tries to talk to him after that, but Clint’s done all he can. He’s tired. He’s in pain. He’s not dead.

*

Neal gets his deal. Clint isn’t surprised. Clint isn’t much of anything these days, but he’s vaguely aware that even if he were thinking things through, this ending would make sense. Neal just does not logically fit in the prison environment. Clint’s not even certain how it happened that he ended up there in the first place. When he goes over the details, it does not make anything clearer to him.

Neal tries to tell him things, to give Clint time and attention as he did before the escape. Clint is careful not to piss him off by obviously shutting him out—he’s fairly certain Neal won’t hurt him from spite, but he’s not stupid enough to think Neal couldn’t, if he wanted to—but he cannot find it in himself to actively engage Neal. If he thought he could piss Neal off into finishing Clint, he’d give it a shot. He knows that’s not going to happen, though. Neal’s smarter than anyone Clint has ever met. He would find a way to punish Clint that would somehow make things worse. Just because Clint can’t imagine how doesn’t mean anything. Clint’s imagination is small, stunted.

Neal leaves and Clint’s life continues. The library is still there, and Gretchenko is still there. Sometimes, Clint gets himself to eat, but it remains hard to close his fingers around flatware and he’s just not terribly hungry. Time ceases to have any real meaning. Getting out has little attraction anymore, now that he has no ability to provide or care for himself. 

When the guard comes to get Clint from his cell, he’s vaguely aware it’s a Sunday, because Sunday is the day he usually spends most of naked, which has been true of the day. The guard rolls his eyes. “Put some clothes on, Barton, you’ve got a visitor.”

Clint thinks he’s heard wrong at first. “What?”

Gretchenko kicks him across the cell, which isn’t hard, Clint’s not steady on his feet these days. “Одевайся, сука.”

 _Oh._ Clint shrugs himself into his prison uniform. He follows the guard, trying not to slow their combined progress down. The guards aren’t terribly patient. He’s put into a visiting cell. He’s never been in one. He almost wishes he could be bothered to be curious. Mostly, he’s just glad there’s somewhere to sit. It’s nice to be alone for a few minutes.

Two men walk into the cell, and for a second, Clint doesn’t recognize Neal. It’s not that he looks that different in a suit, really, but there is a subtle something in Neal that Clint’s never seen, Clint wonders if it’s just freedom. It looks good on Neal, but then, he cannot be surprised by that. He is, admittedly, surprised Neal is here. It’s the first emotion he’s felt in a while.

Neal sits down and says, “Hi Clint.”

“Neal,” Clint says. It’s weird to talk, he hasn’t, really, in quite a while. Since before Neal’s escape, he thinks.

“Clint, this is Peter Burke. Peter, Clint.”

“You caught Neal.” Clint winces after he says it, realizes it probably wasn’t what he was supposed to say.

Peter smiles. “Twice.”

Clint shakes his head, tries to think. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, Peter’s wife, Elizabeth, made florentines. Thought I’d share.”

Neal puts a Tupperware on the table between them and opens it. The smell of chocolate and something a little spicier fills the air. Clint finds himself actually reacting to it, wanting to eat something. Softly, Neal says, “Go on.”

Clint takes one. “Neal.”

Neal shows Clint his hand before placing it over one of Clint’s. He’s careful not to touch the still healing part. Clint takes a moment to taste the chocolate on his tongue, to feel the connection Neal is offering. Then he tilts his head. 

Neal says, “Two years of Sundays, Clint. I owe you more, but that’s what I can give.”

Clint frowns. “Owe me?”

“Yes, Clint. I know, I know what you did. I know they changed the schedule, you kept the Russians away.”

“We’re even,” Clint tells him, even if it’s maybe not true. At least he won’t have to worry about that debt anymore, if Neal believes.

Neal just smiles, complex and shiny and too smart for Clint. “I’ll see you next Sunday, Clint.”

*

The drive back into the city is quiet. Peter’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, probably trying to figure out what Neal’s angle is. Maybe Neal should invent an angle. Peter would be more likely to believe that than the truth.

“Did you work with him? On the outside?” Peter asks, frowning at him. Neal’s glad Peter’s driving, so that some of the force and focus of his gaze is diverted.

“No,” he says, stretching out the word, still trying to come up with a lie.

“Did you work with him on the inside?”

“Sort of.” Clint had worked for him, for a vague definition of the word. 

“I’m going to need more of an explanation than that, Caffrey.” 

He’s got to think carefully about how to explain things to Peter, who understands theft, in the way that everyone in the white collar crime unit does, but who probably doesn’t understand trade in the way that everyone who’s survived behind bars has to learn. “Did you see his hands?” Clint’s palms had been twisted, his fingers cramped; he’d already adapted to pinching things between his fingers, since he’s physically incapable of grasping them anymore. 

“Of course I saw them. The kid’s a mess. What happened to him?” 

“He helped me,” Neal says softly, staring at his folded hands. 

“So you did work with him?” 

“No—” He wishes he could tell Peter the truth. Clint had helped him escape. Peter keeps telling Neal that Kate’s not worth looking for, but Clint—who had never met her—had helped Neal, when he hadn’t even asked. “I owe him a debt. And he needs this, Peter. I _promised_ him.”

“Yeah, I heard. Part of that ‘Ask for forgiveness, not permission’ policy that’s worked so well for you.” 

“Please,” he says, not sure how to be honest without leaving himself open for a dangerous interrogation. “He needs this.” 

Peter stares ahead for a while, the muscles in his jaw working. Peter’s silence has become almost reassuring to Neal, but this time, it feels like torture. “Maybe,” Peter finally says. Neal fingers tighten, his grip almost painful. “At least next Sunday,” Peter says. “If you’re good.”

*

Neal is as good as he knows how to be, only bends the rules he knows won’t break, and a week later, Peter keeps his word.

Clint looks more surprised that they came back than he had the first time, when he hadn’t expected them at all. “Good to see you,” Neal says, trying to smile. The ring of bruises around Clint’s neck, almost obscuring his tattoo, seem more obscene with Peter there. Clint’s twitching hands just seem pathetic. Clint, who hides his hands under the table almost immediately, seems to agree. 

“Why did you come back?” Clint says, his voice barely audible.

“I said I would,” Neal says. “Have I ever broken a promise?” Clint doesn’t answer him. Just stares at the table. Neal gets out his Tupperware container and slides it across the table. “I made them myself this time. Just chocolate chip, but they’re pretty good. Might still be warm.” He pries it open, not sure if Clint can manage that anymore. 

“I’ve got nothing to give you,” Clint says. Peter makes a quiet noise and shifts in his seat. 

Neal pulls the Tupperware back and waits to see if Clint will say any more. He’s worse off now than he had been when Neal had first met him, when Clint had been tortured to teach Neal a lesson. Neal’s learned a lot of lessons from Clint since then. “I need something from you,” Neal says, because, even though sometimes he hates himself for it, he knows how to play people. Clint looks up at him and Neal forces himself to smile. “I think we were on _The Prince and the Pauper_.” 

Clint looks at Neal quickly, then at Peter, before he lowers his eyes again. “Can’t. Gretch—” He catches himself, aware of Peter’s presence, and starts over. “I lost it.” 

“Luckily for you, I planned ahead.” Neal pulls a paperback copy out of his bag. “Think you’ll be ready to report to me in a week?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, reaching for the book. Neal hands it to him and then holds out a cookie. 

“Eat, or you’ll hurt his feelings,” Peter says. He’s trying to play nice, but Clint’s learned to see threats in every authority figure. He snatches at the cookie and takes a quick bite. Crumbs fall through his fingers. 

Neal keeps up the conversation pretty much on his own after that, but Peter chips in at the end. “We’ll see you next week,” Peter says, as their time runs out and Clint’s shoulders climb back up around his ears. “Hang tight until then, okay?”

Clint murmurs his agreement, unwilling to disobey any order, and leaves, the book clutched awkwardly between his hands.

*

Peter does not have a hard time getting hold of Clint's records. He has them within days of the first visit, but spends the next several weeks going through them, trying to find what isn't there. He's pretty certain there's something wrong with the investigation, probably a lot of somethings. For one thing, Clint is a marksman. Even if he—wisely—hadn't want to use a bow to kill his victim, hand-to-hand combat makes little sense. There's nothing in the file to hint at self-defense.

Peter looks into the other characters who show up repeatedly in the investigation, who were definitely at the scene of the crime, Duquesne and Barton, Clint's older brother. Peter can't help hearing Neal's quiet, even, _he helped me_ , his certain, _I owe him._

Peter puts in a few phone calls, and is eventually able to talk to the prosecutor who worked on the case. Peter says, "You guys didn't offer a plea bargain for at least accessory on the others?"

"Oh, we did," the guy tells him. "That kid wouldn't say a word. Honestly, it very well could have been the brother, but DNA was inconclusive and he admitted to the crime. You know how it works, Agent."

Peter does. Prosecutors do their best, but victories count as much for them as closing rates do to FBI agents. He thanks the guy and does some more thinking.

Then, at seven o’clock on a Thursday evening when they've actually managed to wrap up early at the office, Peter calls Elizabeth and asks, “Are you home?”

“No, hon, I’m sorry. Work emergency.” Thursday nights tended to be rife with those.

“That’s all right.” Peter thinks about why he called, about the way he can’t stop picking at the scab that is Clint Barton in his mind. “I’m going out to the prison.”

“Did Neal— is something—”

“Neal’s fine. He’s probably drinking wine on his balcony or sculpting nude, or whatever it is he gets up to that’s not felonious when I’m not around.” Well, hopefully something that isn’t felonious, in any case. 

Elizabeth asks, “Clint?”

Neal has told Elizabeth about Clint. Peter honestly wonders if he hasn’t told Elizabeth more than he’s told Peter. If so, she’s not spilling. “Yeah. I just— I need to know.”

After a moment, Elizabeth says, “Be careful, hon.”

It doesn’t sound like she’s worried so much about the population of inmates so much as she is about what he plans to do. He grimaces. “I will. Promise.”

*

Clint is brought in by a different guard than usual, and this one isn’t as patient with him, nearly throwing him into the room. Clint catches himself with his hands against the table and Peter doesn’t comment as he loses what little color there is in his skin. Instead, Peter waits as Clint gets himself seated.

When Clint looks up at Peter, he’s doing a decent job of seeming merely curious about the situation, but Peter’s good at reading people across a table from him, and Clint is terrified. He feels sort of terrible about the fact that he’s about to use that fear, but not terrible enough to stop himself.

He says, “Clinton Francis Barton.”

Clint says, “Sir.” 

“Murder in the first, one count of aggravated assault and armed robbery each. Made federal both because your victim worked at the fed reserve and because you crossed state lines before being caught.”

“I worked for a traveling circus,” Clint mumbles.

“Did you know that of the numerous—and I do mean numerous—crimes Neal is suspected of committing, none of them have ever involved violence?”

Peter watches as Clint tries to make himself as small as possible. It feels like kicking a puppy, a lame puppy, but Peter’s point stands, really. Clint says, “He doesn’t like guns.”

“But you do?” Peter presses.

Clint doesn’t look at Peter. He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Bows and arrows?” Peter asks.

Clint looks at him, then. Peter doesn’t think Clint is going to answer, and he doesn’t, not really. Instead he says, “If you’re not going to allow Neal to see me, would you maybe let him write a letter now and then? You can look it over. I could— you could look my responses over, too. Or I don’t have to write. Just—”

“Why does he come, Clint?”

Clint blinks. “What?”

“What is it he owes you, or you hold over him, or— he’s got something good, now. He has a job, and people who care about him, and if whatever it is is going to get him in trouble, if you care about him at all, you’ll tell him not to come back.”

Clint’s expression is so genuinely befuddled Peter knows he’s gotten something wrong, he’s just not sure what. Finally, Clint speaks up. “You caught him. Twice.”

“Yes.”

“You know how smart he is.”

“One of the smartest people I’ve ever known. And I work with a ton of people who have Harvard degrees hanging in their cubbies.”

“Then why would he be stupid enough to risk what he has over some two-bit, broken criminal who doesn’t have anything to trade for a cigarette inside here, let alone outside help?”

“For the same reason he was stupid enough to get himself four more years over Kate. He’s stupidly loyal.”

Clint shakes his head. “Kate’s different. She’s his Juliet.”

“I don’t think she is different, Clint.” Except for how Peter is starting to have the uneasy feeling that Clint cares more about Neal’s welfare than Kate.

Clint sighs. “I don’t know what you want, Agent Burke. If you tell me I’ll do it. Neal— he feels guilty about me. That’s it. I’m sure, in a couple of Sundays, it’ll wear off.”

Peter doesn’t acknowledge what he suspects is a highly faulty sentiment. Instead he asks, “Guilty about what?”

Clint smiles after a beat. It’s not an attractive expression, more bitter and self-aware than any smile should be. “Because he’s smart and I’m not.”

Peter’s stomach aches in a way that makes him wish he hadn’t come tonight. He’s not an FBI agent for nothing, though, so he pushes. “You were seventeen when you were put in here. How do you know what you are?”

There is blood in Clint’s smile now. Peter can’t see the change so much as he can feel it. Clint says, “Murderer, thief. There’s some other information about me carved into my back, but the guards’ll get uppity if I start stripping. That tends to end badly.”

Clint’s voice is flat, as if reading a price list. Everything Peter has suspected after trawling through Clint's records, poking around at the gaping holes in them seems to settle in his gut, and even though Peter knows he had to make sure Clint wasn't Neal's pipeline to his old life, he feels sick all over again, like the worst kind of bully. He says, “Avid reader and loyal friend.”

“Huh?”

“You forgot those, on your list.”

“What do you want?” The question is quiet, but there’s an edge of desperation to it.

“ _Great Gatsby_ this week?” Peter asks.

Clint nods. Peter follows up with, “You liking it?”

Clint shrugs. Peter offers, “Kinda want to punch everyone?”

What little was open about Clint shutters back up. Peter sighs. “Not a trap, Clint. They’re all just kind of self-involved dicks, is all.”

“Little bit,” Clint agrees.

“Finish the book,” Peter says, because it’s nothing Neal wouldn’t say. “We’ll see you on Sunday.”

Clint looks utterly perplexed by this, and almost falls right on his face, tripping, when he looks back at Peter once while being taken out of the room. He looks no less confused when Peter and Neal show up at their regular time on Sunday, but for once he settles after a bit, seeming not to notice Peter’s presence every single second of the visit. It’s progress, and to Peter’s surprise, he finds himself glad for it.

*

She arrives early. She’s wearing loose-fitting, nonrevealing clothes, she doesn’t have any metal on her person (including non-underwire bra), and she has multiple forms of ID. It’s Elizabeth's first visit to someone in prison, and she wants to be prepared.

They let her in without too much trouble—she makes it through the metal detector just fine, but they still do a pat-down search, they go through her purse, and they take each of the cookies out of the Tupperware container to examine them. She’s not sure what exactly they think she might be smuggling. 

The guards grumble a bit about special treatment (Peter pulling his strings to get them an individual meeting room), but then they leave her alone in there. It’s quiet after the doors shut. She waits, tapping her toe to break the silence, watching the clock on the wall tick by, wishing they’d let her keep her cell phone because she’d really like to hear from Peter right about now. 

Soon they open the door and manhandle a young man in an orange uniform through it. He’s shorter than she expected, shorter and skinnier and _meaner_. The bruises and the tattoos and the chains hobbling his feet and binding his arms don’t match the description of the troubled but sweet young man Neal and Peter have been telling her about. 

Then he sees her, and freaks out. “Wrong room,” he says, his feet scrambling on the ground. “Fuckers brought me to the wrong goddamn room—”

“No, Clint, it’s fine—”

One of the guards yells at Clint to shut up and practically lifts him off the ground before slamming him against the table. He presses his forearm against the back of Clint’s neck and leans in so close Elizabeth can see the spittle flying from his lips. “You fight me again, you’re in solitary for a month. You hear me?” 

Clint’s face is pressed against the table. There will be at least one new bruise there. Probably on his cheekbone, to match his swollen lip and his neck, which looks like someone spilled blue and black watercolor paint all over it. She’s never seen violence up close like this before. 

Clint lets his body go loose in the guard’s grasp and says, “Yes, sir.” They fasten his chains to the table quickly and apologize to her before they step out of the room to keep watch through the windows. 

“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “This isn’t really what Peter had in mind when he asked me to come here.” 

“Peter?” He looks up at her for the first time. “Is he okay? Is Neal okay?” Any doubt she had about his sincerity, his intentions, leave her. She knows that tense, panicked feeling. She’s spent a lot of nights waiting for phone calls, nights in the waiting rooms of different hospitals, always hoping for the best (always fearing the worst). 

“They’re both fine. Neal’s working undercover right now and neither of them could leave long enough to come here. They didn’t want you to worry, and since I’ve got the day off, it made sense for me to come.” She holds her hand out for him to shake. “I’m Elizabeth. Peter’s my husband.” Clint stares at her hand for a moment and she realizes what a thoughtless gesture it had been. Clint curls his hands in on themselves and she bites her lip. Not quite the introduction she’d been hoping for. 

“Thanks for coming,” Clint says. “I would have worried if I didn’t get pulled out of gen pop for visiting hours. Um—I just gotta call the guard back, they usually wait till the full hour’s over. Could you maybe wave or something?” 

“Do you...want to leave? Because I was planning on staying for a while.” 

“You shouldn’t—this isn’t a place you should come to.” 

It’s not a place Clint should be, either. It doesn’t seem like a place anyone should be. It’s a cage. A grey, industrial, sprawling cage, with guard towers and barred windows and handcuffs that are turning Clint’s wrists red. “Maybe I just wanted to meet you,” she says. “They talk about you all the time. I was getting pretty curious.” 

“They—they talk about me?” He looks so surprised. Taken off-guard for a moment, looking to her for an answer, not ducking his face away or staring at his lap. 

“All the time. Neal thinks very highly of you.” It takes her a second to realize Clint’s blushing. His skin is pale and bruised in turns, hiding the flush that fills his cheeks. “Peter also told me you’re a fan of my baking.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You can just call me Elizabeth.” He looks uncomfortable with that idea, but nods anyway. She pulls out her tupperware and pries open the lid. “Neal said that your favorites were the florentines, right?” 

“They’re all good.” 

“That’s a very sweet thing to say.” He looks flustered again, even at that slight compliment. It’s been a very long time, Peter had warned her, since Clint has spent any time with a woman. He’d been concerned about Clint coming on to her, maybe flirting a bit too much. Clint’s barely able to meet her eyes, much less stare at her boobs. She picks up a cookie and reaches across the table to hand it to Clint. 

His hands are more painful to look at than his bruises, even though they’ve obviously healed. Nails, Peter had said. Nails had gone through his palms. She looks away and Clint—who has to be more aware of how obvious the damage is, and had been aware of her response—flinches. 

“They’re fresh cookies,” she says, as Clint takes it clumsily from her. “Baked them this morning.” 

She pushes the Tupperware closer, talking about how she’d baked them, how Satchmo had interfered, talked about when she’d gotten the recipe. She talks as much as she can because Clint is so obviously uncomfortable when she waits for him to speak. He only takes cookies when she prompts him to, and he keeps calling her ma’am when he thanks her. He’s shy. 

He’s a receptive listener, even if he mostly keeps his mouth closed; it’s not hard to talk to him. 

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” she says, packing up to go. Their hour’s almost up, and Clint keeps looking over his shoulder to monitor the guards’ positions. “I’ll bring you those mint cookies I told you about.” 

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to. Neal worries too much.” 

She purses her lips and keeps the majority of her thoughts (about what Clint needs, what he deserves, what they can do for him) to herself, and merely says, “Neal keeps his promises. And he promised you a visit every Sunday. We’ll do everything we can to make sure that happens.”

They take Clint away—thankfully with no more altercations—and she goes through the check-out procedures, collecting her ID and cell phone from the desk and signing out. 

She sits in her car for a long time before she leaves. It’s hard to imagine Neal being where Clint was. It’s almost harder to imagine Kate being where Elizabeth had been. Every week for almost four years, she’d come for him.

*

When Neal makes the decision to leave, to get on a plane with Kate, there are five people he takes into consideration. The first is June, who will understand, and the second Moz, who will approve. Elizabeth won’t agree, but Neal senses she won’t judge, either. Peter will be disappointed. Clint will be— Clint will be unsurprised.

Neal does not kid himself that Clint really expects Neal to keep his promise. It does not make it any better that Neal intends to break it, knows that without him Peter has no reason to keep visiting, and Clint has nothing. Neal will miss Peter, but he will have to live with knowing he has done something worse to Clint than Gretchenko or any of the others could ever imagine.

He tries to figure out a way to tell Clint without telling Peter. He assigns _Fried Green Tomatoes_ and leads their discussion around Ruth’s death, because someone up and just leaving would clue Peter in right away. But the book makes Clint agitated and more upset than usual, so Neal leaves off.

On the last Sunday Neal will be in New York, he reaches out before they leave and squeezes Clint’s fingers in his own. He says, “I wish I had a tenth of your strength.”

Clint frowns at him, and Neal regrets that it’s the last expression he’ll see. He lets go of Clint’s hand.

*

Peter isn’t sure when he learned to read Clint well enough to see how frantic the kid is when he’s the only one to show up the next weekend. Clint crosses his arms over his chest, rubbing his knuckles up and down them, as if to warm up. Peter says, “You knew he was going to try something.”

Clint’s expression is something close to the first time Peter came on his own. The terror is more guarded now—Peter thinks it’s because Clint has slowly rebuilt some of his reserves, wonders if this will undo everything—but it still thrums, just below the surface. Clint asks softly, “Is he dead?”

And it’s the one good thing Peter can report. “No. No, he’s— he’s alive. You knew he was going to try something?”

Clint looks away. Peter rubs a hand over his face. “Clint, I won’t be mad. Just, he told you?”

Clint takes a while to answer, but eventually he admits. “Hints only.”

“They’re putting him back in here.”

For a second, Peter watches as Clint stops breathing. When he starts again, it’s shaky, and he tells Peter, “You can’t, you _can’t_ do that. You— even if you’re pissed, really pissed at him, and Neal’s _Neal_ , he won’t, he’s a _fed_ now, don’t you get it? If you want to punish him—”

Peter cuts in at that, unsure how long he can hold out before the nausea washing over him wins if Clint keeps talking. “He’s going into protective custody, Clint.”

Clint nods at that, clearly thinking. “Washington, Karan and Gonzales are the guards you want on him. He’s a favorite of theirs, and they won’t— they’re not as susceptible to bribes.”

The implications of this information make Peter want to hit something, but the last thing Clint needs is to see Peter losing it, so he just says, “Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”

“How long?” Clint asks. “They— he said it was for life, if he went back in.”

“Working on it,” Peter tells him.

Clint looks at him and it’s the first time Peter can really remember Clint initiating eye contact. “If— if you can’t fix it,” he sounds apologetic, as though he’s sorry he doesn’t believe Peter can fix anything, “he needs a special ward. Ex-cops. He can’t, I mean, solitary for life would--”

“I know, Clint, I know. I may not have seen him in here, but— but he’s my friend. I’m going to do my best.”

Clint is still for a bit, and then he nods, once, sharply. “Well. That’s good.” He pauses. “Thanks for coming to tell me.”

Peter hears the distance Clint is already creating in his own mind and realizes, blinking, that Clint expects Peter to disappear if Neal’s not around to bring him. He pinches his lips together. It won’t do any good to protest otherwise. He will just have to prove himself in that regard. There is one more thing, though. “Clint.”

Clint must hear the change in Peter’s tone, because he stiffens. Peter says, “Kate’s dead.”

Clint says, “No.”

“Clint—”

“No,” Clint repeats. “No, that doesn’t happen to Neal. Things like that don’t happen—”

Peter makes calming noises, because Clint is becoming visibly agitated, but Clint can’t seem to focus on them, his breath becoming more rapid and less stable, his words louder. Peter barks at the guards to be careful when they interfere of their own accord, catching onto Clint, leading him out. Only after he’s gone does Peter remember he hasn’t told him he will be back next week.

*

Clint sees Neal every Sunday, when Peter comes and Neal and Clint both get called into the visiting room, and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, when Neal is allowed an hour in the library. Clint feels like he gets to see two different Neal Caffreys and he doesn’t particularly like either one.

When Peter visits, Neal puts on a “grieving but improving” act. He acts tired and sad, but he smiles every so often, he focuses on what Peter says, he eats the cookies Elizabeth sends. 

In the library Neal is a ghost. He loses track of conversations, he jumps at loud noises, his hands shake when he forgets to hold them steady. He says, over and over, “I don’t know what happened.” Neal remembers himself enough that if Clint comes in limping, or with new obvious bruises, he’ll ask about it. Clint’s grateful for that.

Neal talks about Kate sometimes. “We were so young when we met,” Neal says. “I was just a bit older than you, and she was…god, she was only nineteen. She was so young,” Neal says again. Clint can’t remember feeling young when he was nineteen. Mostly he’d just felt disgusting, and that’s spanned most of his life. “She was so _alive_.” Clint doesn’t tell him that everyone’s full of life until they die. Kate’s the first person Neal’s really lost. Clint’s been losing people since he was seven years old, when his dad picked the whisky bottle instead of his kids. 

Clint’s an expert in losing people, and he hopes Neal stays a beginner.

“I hope you get out,” Clint says, because even though it means Neal’s leaving, Clint’s not mean enough to want him to stay. The trajectory of Neal’s life wasn’t meant to include these prison interludes, people like Neal aren’t supposed to go through the same shit people like Clint were born for. “Peter seems like he’s going to help.” 

“Peter’s a good man,” Neal says, like it’s a foreign concept and not a compliment.

“So are you.” 

Neal looks at him with eyes that seem too old for his face. “I’m not so sure about that.”

*

Peter gets Neal out, and Neal stabilizes a bit. There’s still something off. Clint’s certain Peter notices, though, so he doesn’t try and find a way to bring it up. Now that Gretchenko doesn’t have Neal’s vulnerability to taunt Clint with, he’s gone back to more pure physical abuse. Clint prefers it, truth be told, but dealing with the pain takes a different kind of energy than reminding himself that Neal is going to be okay. And it’s not as if Clint can make Peter do anything other than what he plans on doing anyway. All in all, Clint is going to save any tidbits for Peter for when they’re really needed.

Soon after the world rights itself in this fashion, Peter brings up the parole. Clint’s been avoiding thinking about it. A year is a long time, more than long enough for things to go horribly wrong and Clint to lose his shot at getting out. But even barring that, Clint’s not entirely sure how he’s going to survive on the outside. His common sense tells him that no grocery store or movie theater or library is going to hire someone who can’t stand on his feet for eight hours, and whose neck tattoo scares off women and children. And that’s without bringing up his record.

But Peter strips away Clint’s choice to ignore the issue by saying, “Your parole hearing is in eleven months.”

Clint isn’t sure what to say to the statement, so he stays silent. Peter looks at Neal, who normally would have taken the lead without having to be prodded. It’s things like that, this moment, that make Clint sure Neal isn’t completely back on his game yet.

Neal says, “I think it’s time to move on to your next assignment.”

Something in Neal’s tone tells Clint he isn’t going to be reading another book, at least not at Neal’s instruction. He wonders if this is what he’s always been waiting for, if this is the moment when Neal reveals himself. He doesn’t think Neal will ask for anything cruel right in front of Peter, but Neal is good at codes, at intimation. And this Neal, he doesn’t have as much to lose as the one who was in prison the first time, who walked out of here with Peter and an anklet.

Neal tells him, “I want you to talk with Washington. He’ll know you’re coming. Ask him about Hudson Link and getting you hooked up. Then look through the online courses offered and pick one. I don’t care what it is. You can take basketweaving, for all I care, just pick one of the courses, register and take it. Report to Peter and me every week about how class is going.”

Clint frowns. “I thought— I got my GED?”

Quietly, Neal says, “These are college courses, Clint.”

Clint steals a glance at Peter, whose expression is painfully neutral. Clint starts, “Neal—”

“It’s a good idea,” Peter interrupts. “The Board will like seeing it, and it will look good when you get out.”

For all the good that will do Clint. He takes a breath. Neal says, “You liked math.”

Clint shrugs. He did like it, but _everyone_ could probably get a high school degree if they worked hard enough. College is different. Nobody in Clint’s family has ever gone. And Clint doesn’t even have a real, classroom education. The stakes were high enough the first time, and he doesn’t know that he can pretend some more, just to keep Neal happy. 

He pushes back. “What happens if I don’t?”

Neal blinks. Peter frowns. Clint almost finds it in himself to smile. “No, tell me. What happens? You get rid of my protection? You find a way to make my owner lay claim again? What, Neal?”

Neal’s too clever, he won’t really tell Clint. If he did, Clint could plan, could find a way to get himself killed. Neal would never allow a plan to go awry like that. Clint knows he should stop, but he can’t seem to manage it, like all the words he’s bitten back and swallowed and buried have overflowed, breaking down Clint’s carefully erected self-containment. “Or maybe you’ll just find a way to indulge, hm? It would be brilliant, I guess, to get me here, get me to feeling safe and then finally, finally take that away, even if I physically disgust you.”

When Clint stops, he finds himself panting, despite not even having raised his voice. Neal and Peter are both a different shade of green. Clint doesn’t care. He just wants to know, for once, what’s coming at him if he decides to say no.

It takes Neal a long time to swallow and say, “If you don’t, I assign you another book, which you are also free not to read, and I come back next Sunday, and either we talk about the book, or we talk about whatever the hell we want to talk about. That’s what happens, Clint.”

Clint’s hands instinctively try to curl themselves into fists without his permission and he can’t help the slight whimper that escapes from him. Neal says, “Clint,” whispers it, almost, and reaches out slowly. Clint considers pulling away, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort. Neal will have what he wants in the end. 

Neal takes each hand in both of his in turn, rubbing carefully at joints and muscles that aren’t so close to the scar tissue that they can hurt Clint. Rather, Clint’s hands, which become stiff and even more useless in their semi-curled state begin to relax. Neal’s hands are smooth, soft in a way Clint can’t ever remember his own being. Neal doesn’t talk, doesn’t do anything to distract from the feeling of his ministrations. 

Clint can’t remember the last time someone touched him without the intent to harm. He’s pretty sure it was the hug Neal gave him, before his escape. Clint begs, “Please,” without really knowing what he’s asking for. Maybe for Neal to stop, to not let Clint fall any deeper into Neal’s clutches. Or maybe, more realistically, for Neal to not let go.

In the end Neal does, he has to. Neal can’t look Clint in the eyes, so it’s Peter who asks, “Will you consider taking the class?”

He will, Clint knows. He’ll be signed up and studying by next week. He says, “I’ll think about it.”

*

Gretchenko gets wind of Clint’s new classes and laughs so hard he doubles over, slapping his hands on his thighs, voice echoing down the hallway. Gretchenko’s a big man, strong, but Clint’s not weak; he can spot the places where Gretchenko leaves himself open for attack: the backs of his knees, his neck, a quick blow to the nose—there are openings, if Clint was brave enough to take them, for Clint to attack. Instead, he does nothing.

Clint has not been brave for a very long time. 

Gretchenko calls him stupid, tells him to get naked, tells him to crawl around on the floor and bark like a dog, tells him that’s all he’s good for. Clint doesn’t disagree, but the next day (his knees bruised but his pride about the same) he goes to talk to Washington. Clint asks about Hudson Link, asks about the classes that are available. He’s braced the whole time for Washington to laugh, he’s tense, expecting Washington to see through him, to see how Clint’s barked and begged and bargained. Instead Washington shows Clint the course catalog. They get him signed up for Algebra II and American History. 

When Peter and Neal come to visit, Clint tells them about his classes, but he doesn’t tell them that it won’t do any good. 

They’re too nice, too clean, too stupid—even though they’re worlds smarter than Clint is—to see something very, very simple. Clint’s seen himself in the mirror, seen how tired and fucked up and used he is. The very simple truth that Peter and Neal are convinced they can see beyond is that Clint is nothing more than what he looks like. There are no layers. He’s not going to secretly become Neal, he’s not going to become someone good, like Peter, he’s never going to have someone like Kate to love him and care for him. 

The courses are hard, but Clint gets through them. He takes them one day at a time.

There are a lot of days in eleven months.

*

It looks good to the parole board. They don’t even summon him to speak to them, even though he’s been practicing his words, the way Neal had taught him to, even though he’d been ready to tell them the truth about how he wants to live his life better, how he never wants to have to come back here.

There are thirteen days between the approval of his parole and his release. On the first night, he’s fucked until he bleeds. Second night, they tie him up and take turns, leaving him trussed up the next day until he loses feeling in his arms and legs. By the fourth day, he’s begging, and by the fifth, he just hopes he won’t die before he gets to go outside again. 

Sixth day Neal and Peter come visit and Clint’s throat is too fucked up to talk. It’s probably good, because if he’d been able to do anything other than cough, he would have had to tell them he’s about to be free. He’d have had to acknowledge that this—this hour sitting across the table from them while they hold a full conversation without making him feel excluded, while they talk about books he’s read and things he knows—this is the last time. 

When the guards come to take him back to his cell, he pulls away from them. Peter snaps to attention and tells the guards to back off for a second. Neal steps close to Clint, asks him, “What’s wrong?” 

Clint’s good at math (he’s passed two math courses now, he’s a delinquent fucking college student); he knows how the balance between them stands. He owes Neal his life. 

He can’t think of any way to repay Neal and Peter for their friendship, doesn’t know how to say goodbye to them in a way that will make it hurt any less. 

He can’t think of anything to say. Eventually, Peter has to tell the guards that they can take Clint and go. The last he sees of them, they’re watching him, their eyes on him, careful and focused and Clint takes a mental picture, hiding it where nobody will find it.

*

Clint is shown through the front doors of the prison on a Thursday morning. It’s early November and cold enough that the clothes he came in with—jeans and a ratty t-shirt—aren’t much help. The clothes hang on him badly enough that Washington, who was the one to process him, had to find safety pins just to keep the pants from falling down.

Other than that, Clint can lay claim to his fifty bucks in release money, the copy of _All Quiet on the Western Front_ Peter loaned him so he could read, the drawings from Neal that Kavanagh has kept for him, and a state-issued ID. The bus stop that will take him away from the prison is a good two hundred yards out. Clint sighs and rubs his knuckles over his arms. It’s going to take forever to walk that far. He’s already kind of exhausted from all the walking required just to get outside the walls.

For a second, he slides down against the outside wall of the prison, curling up and breathing the air. He hasn’t been outside in almost two weeks, Gretchenko not willing to waste time. He can see where the gate is open, allowing him to walk through and onto the main sidewalk, where the bus will take him anywhere he wants pretty much, so long as it’s somewhere he can make the regular meetings with his parole officer. He just has to get himself to the stop.

The cold isn’t really helping with the pain, and sitting there is just making him colder, so he forces himself to his feet. It’s slow going, but he’s almost made it to the gate when a Taurus pulls up next to him. The window rolls down and Neal says, “Sorry we’re late. I told Peter traffic was going to be—”

Behind Neal, Peter cuts in. “Get in the car, Clint, you’re going to freeze in that get up.”

Clint is so used to responding to that tone of authority that he’s in the backseat before he can even think to ask what is going on. When Clint’s seated, Peter says, “Put your seatbelt on.”

Clint blinks. Nobody has ever once given a shit about whether he put his seatbelt on. It’s tricky to manage with his hands, but he figures it out. When he’s done with that, Peter’s driving again and Clint says, “I, um—”

Neal looks over his shoulder. “What’s your favorite food? I never asked you that. I mean, other than cookies. I wanted to do cookies, but Elizabeth said real food first.”

Clint mouths, “Elizabeth,” trying to get his brain to catch up. 

Peter keeps his eyes on the road and says, “When the notification that your parole had been granted came through the system she wanted to plan a party, but we thought we’d start small, with a lunch at our place. Your choice of where we pick up from, though.”

Clint only has vague memories of enjoying food outside of Elizabeth’s or Neal’s or Moz’s baked goods. He struggles to come up with something, anything to say. He thinks of some of the laborers in the circus, the ones who spoke little English and disappeared whenever law enforcement poked around. The ones who were generally willing to share their dinner with Clint if he came around at the right time, helped watch their kids or cleaned up afterward. “I like Mexican, I think.”

Neal grins. “I know a place.”

Peter says, “Of course you do,” but there’s fondness in his tone and he’s already gesturing at Neal to make a call. Neal is on the phone in seconds, ordering in Spanish—of course—and Peter’s asking, “Was there something in particular you wanted?”

Clint shakes his head. He feels exhausted just from the first decision. He’s glad he can stay in the car when they get to the restaurant, that Neal doesn’t mind running in. Even from the car everything seems louder than it was before prison, more overwhelming. Clint doesn’t allow himself to think about it. He wanted out; he’ll manage.

When Peter actually stops the car in front of a house, Clint finds himself paralyzed. Clint can’t remember the last time he stepped foot inside a house. He’d grown up in apartments and trailers, orphanages and circus buses. Peter’s house is brick, solid and dignified in a way that matches Elizabeth and him perfectly. Clint knows he’s going to knock something over, spill something, manage some faux pas.

Neal opens the car door for him, and it takes Clint a second—he’s too busy trying not to soak up the feel of Neal’s hands on him, careful and kind—to realize Neal is helping him into the house, managing to do so without making Clint look more pathetic than he already does.

As soon as he’s inside the door, and he barely even makes it that far, Elizabeth is hugging him. It strikes Clint that for all the times he’s spoken to Elizabeth, they’ve never exchanged more of a touch than holding hands, a swipe of fingers. He is careful not to cling, to let her go when she moves away.

The table is set with real silverware, plates that could be weapons if shattered, but are too elegant to consider damaging. Neal, Peter and Elizabeth all eat with their hands, and Clint could cry from gratitude: forks are still Public Enemy Number One with him. The food is hot and fresh, full of flavor, and when he finishes his first helping, Neal just puts more on his plate and says, “Eat what you can.”

He falls asleep at the table. He’s horrified when he jerks awake. He wanted to help clean up, show he’s not useless, but the last twelve days are still wreaking havoc on his system, and Clint can’t remember the last time he felt safe enough to sleep, certain he wouldn’t awaken to a worse nightmare than whatever his subconscious could dream up.

There are cookies when he does wake, and everybody hushes his embarrassed apologies. Elizabeth puts the extra cookies in a tin and gives him a sturdier bag than the one currently holding his stuff. She says, “Neal says you like to read,” and adds a mystery novel she enjoyed to his collection of things.

Rather than dropping him off at the nearest bus station, Peter drives Clint to the halfway house where he is allowed to stay for a week, and helps him to check in. Clint thinks maybe this is goodbye, that the events of the day were just a farewell party on Neal and Peter’s terms, but he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t understand what is going on.

In any case, he is too tired to try and parse anything for the moment. Going up the stairs to the room he shares with three other parolees made him nauseated with the effort. He takes his shoes off, biting his lip to keep from making any sound and curls up on the thin mattress he’s been allotted. Tomorrow, he will figure out what to do, how to make freedom work for himself.

*

He wakes up with the sun. The sun, which is coming through a window with no bars on it. He wakes up to the sun, not to the sound of Gretchenko’s changing breath patterns or the metal doors sliding open or fluorescent lights turning on.

He wakes up and is terrified, disoriented; his feet blaze with pain but the rest of him is aching with a fading pain (a novel experience). One of the other men in his room is waking up. Big guy, bigger than Clint; big muscles and a shaved head. He sees Clint looking and smiles, mouths, “Good morning,” before getting up and stretching. Clint stays perfectly still until the other man leaves, then slips out of bed and puts his clothes back on. The safety pins holding the waistband of his pants tight around his waist are bent out of shape, but they’ll work for another day.

When he gets into the hallway, he sees there’s already a line of four men waiting for the bathroom. If he didn’t have to piss so bad, he’d find somewhere to hide, but he doesn’t know where any other bathrooms are and he isn’t allowed to leave the building until after his intake interview with the day counselor. His new roommate is at the end of the line, and motions him over.

“I’m John,” he says, offering his hand. Clint hesitates, but reaches out and grasps John’s hand. John grunts when he sees Clint’s hand, but shakes it gently and, thankfully, lets go. “What’s your name?”

“Clint.” His voice is hoarse.

“Welcome to the house. You just get out?”

“Yesterday.” The line is at least moving quickly. Clint keeps his eyes on the thin carpet but is watching for any sudden movements, watching to make sure the other men don’t box him in. 

“It’s not so bad here,” John says. Clint nods. Eventually, John stops trying to make conversation.

Clint gets through the morning without making any enemies. Most of the men filter out after eating a quick breakfast; it seems like most of them have jobs or occupational training. Once the building quiets down, Clint haunts the halls, getting the layout of the building in his head, noting all the unlocked windows and closet spaces, and the stairs to the attic, which has enough undisturbed dust coating the floor that Clint’s pretty sure he can use it as at least a temporary escape.

Pretty much every wall is covered with an inspirational poster. Sunrises and sports teams, people climbing mountains, kittens falling all over each other. Next to the framed posters are notices on yellowing paper, taped to the walls: All doors must remain open; Phone use restricted half hour every day; Don’t forget to sign out before you leave the house. They serve as a reminder to everyone in the house that, while they may be out of prison, they aren’t free yet. 

Clint’s startled and sickened to realize that he finds it kind of reassuring. There are fewer rules, out here; he appreciates the help so maybe he won’t fuck it up for a bit longer. Clint kind of wants to get a pen to correct the spelling and grammar on the handwritten signs, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t endear him to the staff.

At eleven he goes down to the living room. There’s a small bald man waiting for him, holding a clipboard and leafing through a file. It takes Clint a minute to recognize the photo stapled to the inside of the folder. He’s grown up a lot since that first photo they took of him, when he’d been reeling from his brother’s departure and desperate to do the right thing. He’s got a nervous smile on his face, in the photo. He’d been nervous. He’d wanted the guards to like him. 

He slips into the living room and clears his throat when the other man doesn’t notice his arrival. “Good morning! You must be Clint.” Clint nods and sits down in a chair that has its back to a corner and a view of the entrance. He’s too far away to shake hands, which is something he’s going to have to get used to working around. “Welcome to Stater House! I’m Al, your temporary case-assignee. You’ll get a full-time parole officer assigned to you later in the week. We’re happy to have you. Did you settle in all right last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Well, I’m here to help you however I can. The first order of business is getting you a job. We’ll set you up with interviews, but it’s your responsibility to pass them. I see you’ve got extra educational experience from your time inside. The GED will help, but the college stuff isn’t enough to qualify you for an advanced position. It probably looked good for your parole, but it’s not going to do much to secure you anything outside a manual labor position out here. Do you have a preference for work areas?”

Clint looks down at his hands, moves his toes inside his beat-up sneakers. “Maybe something that doesn’t need me to stand for too long at a time.” Al frowns and leafs through Clint’s file. The photos of the—the ‘incident’—are about halfway through the stack. There’s a lot of information logged in there.

“Yes, I can see why. I’ll do what I can, but you have to understand, the opportunities for people with a record are extremely limited. And if you’re going to need consistent medical attention, we’ll have to transfer you to a different institution.” Clint’s known for a long time that he’s not going to fit in the world anymore, but he honestly hadn’t expected that it would be this bad this soon. He’s read the pamphlet on the halfway houses. They’re supposed to help, but there are limits to how they give out their resources. They won’t want to waste them on someone like Clint.

“I understand,” he says, the words sort of choking their way out of his mouth. 

“I see on here that you were signed in last night by an FBI agent...a Peter Burke? What’s your relationship?”

“He’s a friend.”

“That’s...that’s unusual, but, really, it’s great. Having a support system can make the difference between breaking the patterns of your old life that got you into the mess you’re in now, and making a new beginning for yourself.” 

The rest of the meeting Clint stays quiet and does his best to listen.

*

Clint can’t bag groceries. It’s not just the time on his feet: he can make himself endure that, even if it means sitting outside the store for two hours, curled up against the wall after his shift to get himself back to the bus and the halfway house. It’s that he can’t grasp the items properly, can’t open the bags quickly enough. They’re nice enough when they give him the, “You’re not quite what we require,” speech, but they give it to him within two days of being hired, all the same.

When Peter calls the halfway house the night after Clint's gotten fired, Clint means to tell him the truth, but he can't seem to make himself, so he mostly just keeps his answers to Peter's questions monosyllabic, lies as little as possible, and gets off the phone as quickly as he can. 

The next night, Neal is harder to trick, but Clint says something about limited phone time, and Neal lets him go, but not before promising to call again.

The libraries use volunteers for reshelving, the managers he interviews with at fast food restaurants spend the interviews clearly trying not to look at either his hands or his neck. The overseers in factories all press him about his ability to stand long hours, and Clint tells them he can do it, he promises, but he doesn’t get called back and he’s not terribly surprised.

At the end of his first week, Al gives him a list of shelters he can stay at, if it comes to that. Both Peter and Neal call on Clint's last evening at the house and he makes some noise about subsidized housing that they both buy. He gives them the phone number of one of the shelters, figuring it will take them a day or so to figure out he's lied. For once, Clint's glad he grew up in a world where he's well-poised to understand the language of poverty. 

Al doesn’t tell Clint you have to get to the shelters by a certain time to get a bed. He makes it to the first two on the list to find them filled and doesn’t have the energy to force himself to walk anymore. For a few moments, he flirts with the idea of picking up some money on a corner, but the idea of being picked up for solicitation, not being able to outrun the cops, is enough to dissuade him.

He finds the nearest alley where he can curl up behind a dumpster and sleep. In the morning he has trouble getting to his feet—they’ve stiffened in the cold overnight—but he manages after a few tries. He makes a list in his head of what he needs in order to survive.

He needs a coat, or at least a sweatshirt. He needs enough money to eat. And for both of those things, he needs a job, even something part-time. Looking at him makes people uncomfortable, so he needs to look for jobs where he won’t be seen much, and factories see him as a liability, so those aren’t going to be of much help. He wonders what it takes to get hired as a sex phone operator. He knows a lot about talking dirty.

He needs access to a computer. He considers where he is, and whether there’s a library close enough to walk to. The bus card he was given by the halfway house is empty. He needs another one of those, too.

He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and doesn’t allow himself to think about the fact that he knows where he can get three meals a day and have a job and a bed. That way lies madness and constant pain. He’s still clear-headed enough to know he doesn’t really want that. He adds that to the list of the things he needs: not to lose perspective.

Over the next few days, he lies to his parole officer, telling him he’s been staying at shelters. In truth, he almost never gets there in time. He makes sure to get to a soup kitchen once a day, because if not he loses all energy. He ends up prioritizing finding a free clinic, but it turns out he has to pay for the painkillers they dispense to him, so it’s a moot point in the end. He loses almost a full day to that.

When November turns over into December, and Clint wakes up one morning and cannot open his hands no matter how hard he tries, he gives in to the reality that he’s going to have to either  
ask for help, or freeze to death. He just needs a few nights out of the cold to figure out what to do, maybe a shower and the ability to do laundry. He knows he smells. He manages to shower at a shelter now and then, but he doesn’t move quickly and people at the shelters get frustrated with his use of water and the way he slows down the lines.

Reluctantly, Clint pulls the piece of paper he’s kept carefully dry and whole from his bag. There’s an address and a phone number on it. He has to get to the library to figure out where he’s going, but Neal said to call any time. Clint really, really hopes that extends to showing up at his door, since Clint hasn’t got a phone. He bites his lip and makes himself move away from the wall. Maybe Neal will have an idea. Neal is good with ideas.

*

An elegant looking, older woman answers the door at the address he’s been given and blinks at Clint. To her credit, she asks, “May I help you?”

The house is _huge_. Clint, who’s used to expecting the unreal from Neal, wasn’t really expecting this. “I— does Neal Caffrey live here, ma’am?”

Something flickers on the woman’s face and she says, “He does, but he’s not at home. May I take a message?”

Clint thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. The door is closed, and he hobbles to the side of the staircase, where he can sit and wait. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, he is keeping an eye out for Neal, but it’s cold, he hasn’t eaten since mid-day the day before, and he nods off at some point.

He wakes up to Neal swearing, “Jesus Christ, Clint, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Startling to his senses, Clint frowns. “I was checking in with the parole officer.”

“Who told Peter you told him you were staying at the shelters, but we were only able to find two that had even seen you, and only for a couple of nights apiece. Where have you— are you still wearing a t-shirt?”

Clint’s head hurts. Neal’s questions feel kind of overwhelming. Clint goes back to basics, focusing on what he needs. “May I please come in?”

Neal is quiet for a second and Clint realizes how dirty he is. He starts to say, “Nevermind, it’s all ri—” but Neal cuts him off, “Yes, yes. I mean, of course. You— I’m glad you came, Clint.”

Softly, Clint says, “You don’t have to.”

“No,” Neal agrees. “I want to. You haven’t seen my place, after all. What kind of friend doesn’t visit his friend’s apartment?”

The question is asked gently, so gently even Clint catches the joke. He does his best to smile at Neal. It’s a little easier when Neal helps him stand, hands careful and kind and warm against Clint’s skin. Neal goes slowly, not rushing Clint and Clint whispers, “Thanks.”

*

It takes ages just to get up to the door. When Neal knocks, the woman who had answered earlier is there in a moment. Clint tenses; he doesn’t want to be humiliated in front of Neal, and he knows that this woman does not want Clint in her house. “Sorry,” he says, struggling against Neal’s grip as much as he can. “I—look, if you can just give me a twenty or something, I’ll be out of your hair.”

The woman’s face darkens and Clint tenses; his vision goes fuzzy at the edges. He doesn’t have energy to spare for fear, and that’s a dangerous state for someone like him to be in. 

“This is Clint,” Neal says. “Clint, this is my landlady, June.”

Clint’s tired brain thinks about Al, about the three men who’d shared the small room with Clint in the house he’d lived in on his release, and tries not to laugh. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” June says, holding the door open wide for them.

Clint nods, searches for the words to agree with her, but he doesn’t have anything that sounds as nice as her words do, he’s got nothing as smooth as her smile. He stares at his toes and stumbles when Neal leads him forward. “I’m dirty,” he says, digging in his heels as best he can. June’s floors look expensive, and Clint can see the gray of his used-to-be-white sock through a hole in his ratty sneakers. He shouldn’t have come here. 

June moves to Clint’s right side and lifts Clint’s arm until it’s over her shoulder. “Young man,” she says, helping Neal carry Clint inside the house despite his protests, “if you think this house is going to fall apart because of a little mud, you are sorely mistaken. Why, there was one time when my husband came home with a pack of dogs, all soaked to the bone...” Her dress probably costs more than everything Clint’s ever owned put together, but she doesn’t even blink at the stains on Clint’s t-shirt or the smell coming off of him. Clint’s too dumbfounded to fight back.

She tells stories while she and Neal drag Clint up the stairs. The staircase seems to go on forever. By the time they get to the top he’s biting his tongue to keep from crying out each time his foot lands on another step and the arch of his foot is extended again. 

There’s an apartment at the top of the stairs. June’s a bit out of breath, but her story hadn’t paused the entire walk. Clint feels like maybe he imagined her and the orange of her dress and the way she’d touched Clint as if it hadn’t bothered her. Neal’s friends must be as good at lying as he is. 

“Do you want food, sleep, or shower?” Neal asks, after June bids them good night. Clint takes stock of himself. He’s hungry, but he’ll be able to get to a soup kitchen soon, they get better stocked the closer it gets to the holidays. He can sleep anywhere, and he’s not going to put Neal out for the night. But a shower—warm water, maybe even _hot_ water—

“Shower,” he says. “Please.” Neal helps him into the bathroom and, when Clint sits down on the closed toilet seat, Neal crouches on the floor at his feet. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you get your shoes off,” Neal says drily. “Unless you were planning on jumping in fully-clothed?” 

Clint opens his mouth to protest but realizes that’s probably what he would have done. His hands still haven’t uncurled the way they should, and the laces of his shoes are knotted tight. “Okay.” He closes his eyes as Neal’s hands go to work. Clint doesn’t want to see the pity on Neal’s face, doesn’t want to see Neal’s face as the ripe stench of Clint’s feet fills the room (which had smelled so good right when he stepped in, like flowers and soap and cologne). When Neal’s hands cradle Clint’s feet, he can’t help the instinctive flinch.

“You should have asked me for help,” Neal says, his voice quiet, his hands gently sliding Clint’s sock down over his ankle. “I would have—” Neal’s words die out and Clint opens his eyes enough to look down at his foot. It’s not as bad as his hands, but the toes are tightly curled, the skin’s drawn tight over the tendons, the red scar looks inflamed. His foot doesn’t look like it belongs to him. It looks like it belongs to someone who’s already dead. 

“I would have helped.” Neal takes Clint’s other shoe and sock off and Clint just sits there and lets him. 

Maybe Neal would have helped, he thinks, maybe if he’d asked that first night, or in the first week where he hadn’t been able to eat every day, maybe if he’d asked, Neal would have helped him. But Clint had wanted to make it on his own. He hadn’t wanted to cave in the way he had last time, he doesn’t want to be as weak as he’d been when he’d accepted Gretchenko’s help. 

“I thought I could do it on my own,” he says. He’d done his time, he’d paid for his mistakes, but he should have known better than to think things would get any easier. If he’d been smarter, he would have come out of prison looking for a new protector. He should have tried sweet-talking Peter or Elizabeth, he should have gotten into John’s bed at the halfway house when Al kicked Clint out of his own. 

“We looked for you the whole time,” Neal says, standing up and going to the tub. He turns the water on and uncaps the bottle of shampoo and soap. “Don’t do that to us again.” He touches Clint before he leaves. Just puts his hand on Clint’s shoulder and looks him in the eye for a second, like Clint’s supposed to understand something from that. Clint just concentrates on not flinching away from Neal’s touch; belatedly, he pulls back when he realizes that instead he’d been leaning into the contact. 

The room’s full of steam by the time Clint gets his clothes off. They make a sad, dark pile on the floor. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror. 

He gets into the tub carefully, putting the soap and shampoo right on the ledge before sitting down on the bottom. Slipping and cracking his head open in a bathtub is not the ending he’d choose for himself, and he’s felt a new kind of unsteady ever since he entered June’s warm house. 

The water’s hot, Neal had closed the door behind him, and Clint can stay here for as long as he wants. He folds his arms in his lap and bends his head so that the water runs through his hair. 

He’s alone and he’s safe. He can’t remember ever feeling like this before. He’d never had this in prison—not when he’d been under Gretchenko’s control, and certainly not when he’d been fair game for everyone before that. There had been some times, after Neal had come in and changed Clint’s life, there had been some afternoons in the library where Clint could find a safe corner with a good book and sit for a little while with a reasonable surety that no one would come looking to hurt him until he left. 

He sits in Neal’s bathtub until the water goes cold. His whole body’s shaking, so he doesn’t try to handle the shampoo or soap. He still feels cleaner than he has in weeks just from the water flowing over him. 

When the water gets uncomfortably cold he turns it off and gets out of the tub. Neal’s towels are so clean and fancy they look like they’re there for decoration; Clint can’t bring himself to touch them. He pulls his old clothes on piece by piece. 

Neal’s waiting for him when he comes out. He gestures to the table in the middle of the room. There’s a plate there with some apple slices and some sort of white, soft cheese. Neal talks softly while Clint stuffs his face like a barbarian. Neal brings him bread with butter when the plate’s empty and Clint’s stomach won’t stop growling. The crust of the bread is hard without being stale or burnt, and the inside’s soft but not doughy. Clint actually manages to eat it slowly enough that he can enjoy the way it tastes. Even though he forces himself to savor the last few bites as unhurriedly as he can, he’s still done too soon. He feels like he’s living in a different body, now that he’s clean and warm, his stomach full. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll pay you back, for all of it, as soon as I can.” He levers himself up to a standing position and has to bite back an involuntary whimper. Now that the cramped muscles in his feet have relaxed, trying to flex them again is agony. He almost wishes he’d left his sneakers on, it’s going to hurt worse going down the steps than it had climbing up. 

“Don’t be an imbecile.” Neal’s voice hits him like the crack of a whip; no one’s snapped at him like that since prison. He sits back down in his chair with a thump that rattles his spine. “You are not leaving this apartment until you are well-rested, well-fed, and until I know that wherever you’re going has a bed and food waiting for you.” 

Clint’s forehead crinkles with confusion. “But I don’t want to go back,” he says helplessly, because the nightmares about prison are still worse than what he lives through during the day. “I promise I’ll be okay on my own.” He’ll find a job, or he’ll—he’ll set himself up on a streetcorner somewhere. Hell, maybe he’ll find a circus and join the freakshow. Clint Barton, the amazing crucified wonder. 

“I’m not going to let you go back to prison,” Neal says, crouching down in front of Clint so that Clint’s looking down at him. Clint knows it’s a strategy to make Neal seem like less of a threat, Neal _taught_ Clint that trick, but it’s still fucking working. “Things are going to get better for you.” Neal’s arms slowly come up around Clint’s shoulders, but...gently, not like he’s holding Clint down. Clint sags in his grip and, because he’s stupid and tired and still hungry, because he feels small and lonely and desperate, he lets himself believe Neal. 

Maybe things can get better.

*

Clint wakes up on Neal’s couch to the sound of whispers. He doesn’t remember moving to the couch, which is kind of terrifying. And he knows he wasn’t the one to take his shoes and socks off again, peel his shirt back over his head, his pants back down and wrap himself in the blanket that’s surrounding him, softer than anything Clint’s ever felt and so incredibly warm. He doesn’t sit up just then, partially because even though he’s been resting, lethargy still seems to have settled into his bones, and partially because he’s not sure he’s supposed to be awake.

He can’t actually hear what’s being said, but he knows the voices, because for two years they’d been the only thing to keep him sane. Peter and Neal sound right to him no matter the decibel.

His stomach growls, despite having been fed probably not that long ago. The voices stop and Neal calls cautiously, “Clint?”

Clint heaves himself upward, doing his best to keep the blanket wrapped around himself with hands that still aren’t keen on unclenching. They’re at least better than they were that morning. He tilts his head. “Um. Where are my clothes?”

“We’re washing them,” Peter says. “And one of June’s staff is on a mission to find some other stuff in your size, preferably weather-appropriate attire.”

“Oh,” Clint says, not sure how to respond to that, because as nice as the thought sounds, it also reminds him of how badly he’s failed. Again.

“Want something to eat?” Neal asks casually, as though he hasn’t fed Clint probably an hour or two earlier.

“I’m all right,” Clint lies.

“Then snack with me,” Neal says, “so I won’t feel awkward about eating in front of you.”

Clint knows this is another tactic, something else Neal taught him, but he’s too hungry to hold out. He part-shuffles, part-stumbles to the table. He doesn’t look over at Peter, who doesn’t have quite as good a game face as Neal. 

As Neal lays out bagels with fresh fruit spreads, fruit salad and cups of coffee, Peter says, “Clint, there’s a friend of mine I want you to talk to.”

“Okay,” Clint says, because Peter has asked. It really is that simple.

“He’s a college friend, we’ve known each other forever. He works for another government agency, and while I don’t know that much about it, since he can’t say much, I’ve talked with him and he agrees that he might be able to help in your case.”

Clint chews slowly on his bagel, which Neal has layered with cream cheese and fresh raspberry preserves. Clint was suspicious of this combo upon first bite, but has since come to appreciate its genius. Finally he admits, “I don’t understand.”

“When you dropped off the radar, it was pretty clear you hadn’t found a job,” Neal tells him.

Peter speaks up. “And Neal had given me the information he had on you before you were released, about who you were on the outside.”

 _Hawkeye._ Clint rarely allows himself to even think the name these days, it makes his stomach burn. “That’s—” He swallows, makes himself state the obvious, even if he thinks it’s cruel of Peter to make him. “I can’t do that anymore.”

“That’s why we were trying to brainstorm up other ideas,” Neal says. “But then, Peter—” He looks at Peter.

Peter shrugs. “Phil, like I said, I don’t know exactly what it is his agency does. I’m not even entirely sure what his agency is called. I don’t think I’m supposed to know Phil works for the government. But he’s been involved in some pretty high level stuff, if I’m reading things correctly, and when I talked to him, he agreed to look into your situation.”

Clint isn’t sure entirely what situation they’re speaking of, because no high-level government agency is looking for someone with his current skills. Hell, no low-level government agency is. Clint’s pretty sure he couldn’t get hired at the department of motor vehicles at the moment. He admits, “I don’t get it.”

Peter sighs. “Just...would you be willing to meet with my friend?”

Clint frowns, because the answer to that is so obvious he can’t believe they’ve just had this entire conversation to get to that point. Peter could have just told him there was a meeting set up and he would have showed. “Of course.”

“Good,” Peter says, sounding way more relieved than the situation really calls for. “So, uh, you won’t mind if he drops by later tonight?”

Clint blinks. Neal stands, squeezing at his shoulder slightly. “I took the liberty of making sure you would have some slacks and a button down when Lawrence returns—he’s the one shopping for you, he has excellent taste. Mind if we get you a little more cleaned up? Promise you can rest some more before our guest arrives.”

Clint’s ninety-nine percent certain he’s too wired to even try closing his eyes, so he just nods and lets Neal have his way. So far, that’s always pretty much worked out for him.

*

Neal helps him shave, which is unexpectedly exhausting; Clint finds himself a few quick breaths away from hyperventilating the entire time. When he wakes up from a short nap, Neal’s got a new outfit for him to wear. Clint promises to repay Neal, but his offer is brushed aside. It’s probably for the best, because Clint doesn’t think he’ll ever get a job where he’ll make an amount sufficient to eat, have a roof over his head, and save enough to pay Neal back for clothing that’s this fucking nice.

Clint gets into most of it himself, but Neal has to help him with the belt buckle and the buttons. The fabric’s clean and crisp, unlike anything Clint’s worn before. He can’t help a half-smile as Peter brings over a tie. Clint feels like a rich guy, like the kind of rube he used to pickpocket at the circus. 

“Let’s get this done up,” Peter says, reaching for the collar of Clint’s shirt to wrap the tie around it. He keeps his movements slow enough that Clint almost feels safe. “This’ll help hide that tattoo,” Peter says, a frown of concentration drawing his brows together. “Bet you weren’t thinking about impressing future employers when you got that thing, were you? Oh, the follies of youth...” Peter steps back to look at it. 

Clint hadn’t been thinking about employers when he’d gotten his tattoo. He’d been thinking about the possibility of infection, he’d been wondering if Gretchenko was going to fuck him while they were still working, he’d been doing his best not to scream. 

“You can’t see it at all,” Neal says softly. Clint catches the glare Neal cants at Peter, and the bemused expression Peter responds with. He pretends to have seen neither. Neal adds, “And it doesn’t look that bad even when you can.” 

Clint tries to bring a smile back to his face but can’t. 

Peter’s friend Phil shows up exactly as the clock strikes seven. It’s sort of creepy. Peter shakes his hand when he invites him into the room; Neal does the same. Phil introduces himself to Clint as Agent Coulson and doesn’t bother holding his hand out. 

There’s some small talk between the four of them, and even though Coulson keeps his gaze on whomever is speaking, Clint can’t help the feeling that he’s being sized up. Finally, Coulson edges his way past the niceties. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Barton alone, if possible.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, interrupting the protests he knows are about to come from Peter and Neal.

“Okay,” Neal says slowly. “But we’ll be close by, so if you need us, just call.”

“All I’m going to do is ask a couple of questions,” Coulson says, responding to the wariness in Neal’s voice. “I may have information of a sensitive nature to share with him.”

“Really,” Clint says, “it’s fine.”

Neal and Peter leave and Clint sits down at the table. Coulson smiles at him and pulls a piece of paper out of his briefcase. It’s a photocopy of an old newspaper. Clint had thought he looked young in his mugshot, but he looks even younger in the clipping. He’s smiling in this photo too, and he’s got the Swordsman’s arm slung over his shoulder. _The Amazing Hawkeye_. 

“I know about the situation that resulted in your arrest and sentencing,” Coulson says, his voice softer and kinder than most of the job interviewers Clint’s met. “Why did you take the fall for your brother?”

Clint closes his mouth so tight his teeth ache. He wants to tell Coulson to fuck off, he wants to _leave_ , but Neal and Peter arranged for this interview. Clint has to get this right. “I did what I thought I had to.”

“Would you do it again?”

Even though his questions are cutting what’s left of Clint into even smaller pieces, Coulson doesn’t look cruel. His eyes look kind, he looks like he cares. He’s waiting for Clint’s answer as if Clint’s choice could become real as soon as he makes it. _Would he go through it all again?_ He’s spent almost half his life in prison for a brother who hadn’t cared and a mentor who’d fashioned Clint into a tool and dropped him as soon as he stopped working.

“Yeah,” he says, because he’d been born loyal long before Neal taught him to be smart.

“That’s what I thought,” Coulson says quietly. “May I take a look at your hands?” Clint wants to hold them back, but at this point he’s got nothing to lose, no reason to protect himself. He holds his hands out and Coulson walks around the table to get a closer look. Clint braces himself for Coulson to touch him, to stretch out the fingers the way the doctors and physical therapists had. 

“Could you please turn them over?” Clint shows Coulson the backs of his hands. Clint tries to hold them still, but that’s a battle he’s been losing for months now.

“I’m not scared,” Clint says defensively. “They just shake sometimes.” They look like gnarled branches in a rough wind.

“That’s probably a good sign,” Coulson says, tilting his head to get a better look. “It means the nerves are likely still intact.” Coulson goes back to his side of the table without once touching Clint.

“I can’t…look, if you’re here because you want to hire Hawkeye, then you better go look at the circuit, because I—I can’t do what I used to.” He can barely hold a fork. “My hands aren’t gonna get better. I don’t want to waste your time.” The doctors at the free clinic had been a new level of pessimistic. The first diagnosis he’d gotten, when he was in the hospital, had talked about long-term damage. The most recent one used phrases like “permanent impairment.”

Coulson looks nonplussed. “We have access to some unconventional surgical options. I’d like to take you to our facility and do some tests, find out the full extent of the damage.”

Clint feels like he just got slapped in the back of the head. “You—you still want me?” Coulson nods. Clint tries to collect himself. “Most places just ask for a piss test.”

“We can do that as well, if it would make you feel more comfortable.” Coulson smiles, after a second, and Clint finds himself wanting to smile back.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he says honestly.

“Good,” Coulson says. “Because we want you to come work with us.”

*

Coulson doesn’t wait, even though, as Peter points out, “It’s ten at night, Phil.”

Coulson tilts his head and asks, “The FBI doesn’t have offices open all night?”

Neal cuts in before Coulson and Peter can get into what seems like a departmental pissing match, which, if the expressions on both their faces are anything to go by, is something they do now and then just because. “Clint’s exhausted.”

Coulson turns and looks at Clint, his eyes searching. Clint tries to exude whatever Coulson wants to see, but it’s hard, because he doesn’t know precisely what that is. Finally, Coulson asks, “If I tell you I need you to come in tomorrow morning, are you going to sleep at all tonight?”

Clint glances at Neal. It’s true, Clint is exhausted. It’s also true, he suspects, that he will toss and turn, knowing that somehow, everything rests on what the people at Coulson’s offices say. He admits, “Unlikely.”

Coulson tells Neal, “I’ll take him back to my place afterward. I have a guest bedroom. I’ll take care of him, promise.”

 _Oh._ Clint actually understood that whatever Coulson wanted him for, was going to do with him, it wasn’t for free. He just— he doesn’t know what he was thinking. It’s not really that big a deal. Coulson’s attractive in a GQ kind of way, almost like an older Neal, and Clint’s fairly certain Peter would have some inkling if a long-time friend was a sadist. Really, as protectors go, one Agent Phil Coulson is a pretty sweet deal. Clint can’t even say why he’s disappointed, but he’s too familiar with the feeling not to recognize it.

Neal still seems uncertain, but then Neal’s probably worried Coulson’s another Gretchenko. Clint has long since come to understand that Neal didn’t exactly realize the bargain he was getting into when he bought Clint’s safety from the prison at large. Clint dredges up a smile, thinking about how now, at least, he won’t be a drag on Neal and Peter’s resources. He says, “Thanks for the— thanks.”

Neal’s responding smile is uneven. He says, “Next time, come to me first.”

Clint doesn’t make any promises.

*

Agent Coulson works for the United Federation of Planets. At least, this is how it seems to Clint when he walks into the building Coulson drives them to, goes up fifty-seven floors and enters into a series of rooms that are pretty much the future. When they were little, Clint and Barney used to catch episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation on neighbor’s TVs. Clint had loved the idea of exploring the stars. Right at this moment, he feels like he’s stepped into an updated version of the twenty-fourth century.

Coulson leads him through a maze of medical rooms and compartments to one where he says, “Take a seat. Sorry for the walk. There isn’t a shorter way.”

Clint shrugs, but it’s an enormous relief to sit down and take his weight from his feet. A moment later Coulson reappears with a tall, athletic looking man with silver hair and a white coat. The man holds his hand out. Clint extends his, but it’s impossible to get it open enough to shake. The man just takes it in both of his and shakes it warmly. “I’m Dr. Brennemen.”

“Clint Barton, sir.”

“All right, Clint. Let me take a look.”

Dr. Brennemen’s version of a “look” is a bit more extensive than Clint’s. For the better part of two hours he uses his eyes, his hands and all kinds of nifty technology to learn as much as he can about Clint’s hands and feet. At the end of all that, he takes a seat in a chair facing the exam room table Clint is on and says, “The damage is fixable, but it’s going to take a series of surgeries for each hand and each foot, the addition of some relatively new tech into your nervous system, which might have long-term side effects we don’t know about yet. And the physical therapy is going to hurt. A lot.”

Clint would like to say he considers any of the information given to him past “the damage is fixable.” He does not. “When can we start?”

The doctor and Coulson exchange a look. Then Brennemen asks, “How’s tomorrow for you?”

Solemnly, Clint informs him, “My schedule’s wide open.”

*

Coulson lives close by in a small house. He doesn’t make any moves on Clint while they’re in the car, doesn’t even touch him while giving him a tour of the house. It’s got a kitchen, a living room, an office, and two bedrooms, each with a small bathroom attached. There are no personal photos on the walls, but the bookshelves that cover the walls of the living room are crammed full. The books on the shelves look worn, their spines broken; Coulson probably wouldn’t notice if Clint took one and read it.

Coulson offers Clint dinner, but his stomach’s tied up in knots. Coulson tells Clint to help himself to anything in the kitchen, and he doesn’t make it sound like a trap.

“This is the guest bedroom,” Coulson says, showing him the last room on the quick tour. 

“You mean—I’m not...” Clint gestures vaguely in the direction of Coulson’s room. 

“I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch,” Coulson says. “If you don’t get a good night’s sleep, Neal will kill me.”

“I won’t tell him,” Clint promises. If Coulson’s trying to keep this a secret from Neal, that means he’ll keep the bruises hidden and the injuries minimal. 

“That’s very generous of you,” Coulson says, with a small smile. “But let’s wait to be partners in crime until you’ve healed up.” 

Clint’s about to tell Coulson that there’s plenty of things he can do before his hands get fixed—he’s got one hell of a mouth, and no one’s ever complained about his ass before—but he doesn’t say anything. Whatever Coulson has in mind, he either wants Clint healthy enough to make his suffering that much worse, or he wants to wait until the doctors are done checking Clint over before he leaves his own marks. “Yes, sir.” 

“If you need anything else, just come get me. I promise, I won’t mind.” Clint sits down on his bed after Coulson leaves and wonders how he’s supposed to play this. Probably he should shower first, to get the smell of hospital off of him, give him a chance to stretch himself (it’s been a relatively long time since he last got fucked, and he’d like to avoid any serious injury). 

He showers and changes into the pajamas that Coulson had left for him; a pair of flannel pants that are too big for him and a baggy sweatshirt. Not the sexiest clothing Clint’s been told to wear before, but whatever floats Coulson’s boat is fine with Clint. 

He makes his way quietly to Coulson’s room. Clint figures he’s probably supposed to play the innocent, supposed to play eager—Coulson had wanted Clint to come get him if Clint needed him; Gretchenko had wanted Clint to pretend eagerness sometimes, too. Clint would rather just lie there and take it; he prefers honest pain to feigned intimacy. 

Some stupid part of him is wondering what Coulson will be like in bed. He doesn’t seem to want to touch Clint, so maybe he’ll just watch. Maybe he’ll talk to Clint the whole time, in that friendly, quiet tone. Maybe Coulson will treat Clint as carefully in the bedroom as he had when Neal and Peter were close by, keeping an eye on them. Or maybe Coulson, who’s giving Clint more than anyone’s ever given him before, will ask for just as much in exchange.

Coulson’s door is locked. Clint tries it as gently as he can. Maybe he’s supposed to pick the lock? Maybe Coulson just wants him to knock. Clint rests against the wall outside Coulson’s room and can barely stop himself from sliding to the floor. Less than forty-eight hours ago he’d been starving to death behind a dumpster, and now he’s staying with a secret agent who wants Clint to join The Federation. 

Clint decides he’d rather spend the night asleep and heads back to his room. He steals an apple from the kitchen on the way and steels himself against the punishment he expects in the morning.

*

Clint wakes to the alarm by the bed. He’d set it for seven-thirty, hoping that was more than enough time to be appropriately dressed and ready to go in for the surgery by ten. The smell of something delicious wafts his way, however, and the faint sound of clinking from the kitchen, tells him Coulson is already up. Clint takes a moment to curl into himself, press his knees to his forehead and just breathe. Then he forces himself out of bed. Coulson needs him healed to be of any real use, he won’t do anything to delay the surgery, at least Clint doesn’t think so.

When Clint shuffles out of the room, Coulson is still in his pajamas and Clint thinks maybe he really was just tired the night before. Coulson says, “‘Morning. Sleep well?”

Clint looks for any sign that he’s supposed to get down on his knees or bend over or something, but even with all his practice at sensing these things, there’s nothing. He blinks. “I— your guest bed is really comfortable.” 

Clint can’t really remember the last time he slept on a bed, not a cot or a bunk. He knows he probably had one at his home, but not at the orphanage, circus or prison. He thinks it would be a dangerous thing to get used to.

Coulson nods a little. “Good. I'd offer you coffee, but the instructions say you can't have anything to eat or drink until after the surgery. You can have all the coffee you want once the docs say it's all right. Or whatever your morning beverage of choice is.”

Clint nods, uncertain what the proper response is. He doesn’t understand why Coulson won’t just make his move, tell Clint what he wants. It occurs to Clint that maybe Coulson is operating under the misconception that since Clint is Neal’s friend, he will be like Neal, know how to create worlds just right for other people. Clint is used to being a disappointment to other people, but somehow this time feels worse.

Coulson tilts his head, considering Clint for a moment, and Clint thinks he’s finally going to just tell Clint what he wants from him, but instead he says, "I think today is mostly exploratory.”

Clint nods. He’s not really sure what that means in a surgical context, but if they say they can fix him, he’s going to do what they want, even if it’s a lie. It’s the first time he’s felt anything like hope in a while, and if it ends badly, well, that would hardly be anything new.

The two of them end up sitting at the kitchen table, Coulson sipping coffee, Clint doing his best not to fidget. Coulson asks, “Nervous?”

Clint is, but not about the surgery. Dr. Brennemen gave him a local just for the worst of the poking and prodding the evening before. He’s fairly confident they’ll put him under and he won’t feel a thing. It’s everything else that falls into the category of unknown factors. Still, he is, so he just shrugs. “Little.”

“Brennemen is easily the best on the planet at this sort of thing. And I’ll be on call the entire time, just a few hallways away. We’re not going to let anything happen to you, Clint.”

It frightens Clint that that soothes him far more than it should.

*

Dr. Brennemen is waiting for them when they go back. Coulson says he’ll be there when Clint’s done, probably to check whether or not it worked—if it doesn’t, Clint’s going to have to make back-up plans pretty quick to avoid ending up back on the street. One of Brennemen’s nurses gives Clint a paper gown to change into. She leaves him alone while he changes, and when she comes back to get him she doesn’t say anything about the scars on Clint’s arms and wrists.

The operating room’s bigger and cleaner than the last one Clint had been in; it has a lot of machines in it that look smarter than Clint. Brennemen shows Clint the operating table and helps him get up on it. 

There are—there are restraints, for his hands and his legs. Clint bites his lip and tells himself he should have expected this. He should be _used_ to it; this is hardly the first time he’s been tied down. 

When the nurse tries to spread Clint’s arm out to tie it down on the table’s extension, Clint pulls it back. “Sorry,” he says, trying to extend his arm himself. She puts a restraint over his bicep and Clint’s whole body turns, as if to protect it. “Sorry,” he says again, trying to breathe, trying to relax. “Please, just—I just need a second, I can do this.” He looks at Brennemen, ready to make an offer, to trade something for Brennemen’s patience. Clint’s been fucked on a lot of hospital beds; he’s been told it’s even better than when he’s awake. 

Brennemen speaks before Clint can offer his skills, saying, “Would you like us to put you under and then secure you?” Clint nods quickly, gratefully. 

One of the other men in the room—Brennemen had introduced them, but Clint’s not good with names; he hasn’t had the opportunity to meet very many people—fastens a plastic mask over Clint’s face. “Count backwards from one-hundred,” the man says. 

Clint fights to keep from tensing up again. What are they going to do if he counts wrong? He’s good at math, but not when he’s like this; what are they going to do if he proves to be too dumb to be worth their investment? 

“One-hundred,” he says, tasting a sweet tang to the air flowing in. “Nintey-nine.” Like _bottles of beer on the wall,_ which he and Barney had sung whenever they managed to get their hands on some booze. “Ninety-eight bo...” Before he can apologize, he drifts off.

*

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is Coulson. “It worked?” he asks, even though he doesn’t really need to; if it had failed, Coulson wouldn’t have bothered to be here, they probably would have ejected him from the hospital already.

“The surgery went smoothly,” Coulson says. Coulson’s got paperwork spread out on his lap; Clint doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting. “The doctor said you can expect to feel pain in your hands and feet, extending up to your elbows and knees, but if you feel any numbness, once this round of painkillers tapers off, then he needs to know about it.” Clint’s hands are wrapped in new bandages. It’s nice to have a new kind of pain in them. It means something different than the pain he’s used to. “Would you like some water?” Coulson asks. Clint’s mouth is actually fantastically dry, but he shakes his head. “Would you like me to turn on the television?” 

“Sure,” Clint says. It would be nice to have some voices in the background while he waits for the next round of surgery. Coulson reaches for a remote and turns the TV on. He tunes it to a guide channel and tells Clint to pick whatever he wants. After a minute, Clint tells him that anything is fine; the only program he recognizes is _Judge Judy_ and he would be perfectly okay never seeing that again. Coulson tunes it in to a reality show about women living in a house together and trying to get their lives together again after…Clint’s not entirely sure what, but it seems like they’ve all experienced something pretty shitty. It’s kind of a comforting choice. He can’t decide if Coulson picked it intentionally or if it was just the first thing he recognized.

Clint keeps glancing over at Coulson, who’s gone back to his paperwork. 

“Sir, do you...need anything from me?” Clint’s afraid to ask, but not knowing is worse. 

“No. I thought you might like some company while you convalesce, and I can do my work in here for a while. No one likes spending time in the hospital alone.” 

Clint thinks about that for a minute. He’s never spent time in the hospital with anyone who’s not been either medical staff or in Gretchenko’s company. He thinks it probably would be nicer to have someone else there. “But I don’t need anything,” he assures Coulson. “You don’t need to.” 

Coulson looks at him for a long moment. Clint tries not to squirm. “I’d like to stay,” Coulson says finally, “if that’s all right with you.” 

“Of course,” Clint says quickly. Coulson gives him a small, pleased smile, and Clint fights down a blush. It feels good to make Coulson happy, in a way Clint’s never felt for one of his protectors before. 

Coulson goes back to his paperwork and Clint watches the TV show, fascinated despite himself at the way the people there interact with each other. They’re so casual, so flippant. He feels like he’s watching some alien race. Coulson’s still there when Clint falls back asleep.

*

The numbness does not set in, but the pain does. The first round of medication wears off and Dr. Brennemen comes around to ask Clint questions, to make sure the healing is going correctly. Evidently it is, because they schedule another surgery for three weeks after the first. Coulson frowns a bit when Brennemen gives him the date, asks, “Isn’t that a little soon?”

Clint chokes on his own saliva. Coulson looks over at him and then reaches for the water cup by Clint’s bed, holding the straw to Clint’s lips. Clint drinks dutifully, swallowing carefully. Coulson pulls the cup away when Clint takes his mouth off the straw, and asks, “You all right?”

Clint nods. It’s Coulson who’s acting weird. Coulson should want Clint functional as soon as possible, and probably before then. Coulson looks at Clint for a long moment, but then turns his attention back to Brennemen. “I’d think he’d need to fully heal up before we progress.”

“For most parts of this, that will be true,” Brennemen says. “But this first stage was largely just...clearing out debris, for lack of a better explanation. We actually don’t want to take the chance that it will heal entirely in the state it’s in right now. We want to give you enough time,” and now he’s talking straight to Clint, as though Clint’s got a say in this situation, “not to suppress your immune system with our repeated attacks on it, but not enough for the work we’ve done to basically set. Do you think you can handle another round in three weeks?”

Clint glances at Coulson, but Coulson’s expression is mild, not giving away anything. Clint doesn’t know what the right answer is, so he compromises with, “If that’s what everyone thinks is best.”

Brennemen frowns, and Clint’s worried he’s chosen the wrong answer, but the doctor just says, “All right. I’m releasing you in the morning. Take it easy, sleep a lot, eat healthy foods, and do what Agent Coulson tells you. I’ll check in in another couple of days, see your progress, if I’m feeling good at that point, we’ll book the surgery.”

Brennemen nods at both of them and leaves. Coulson looks as though he’s going to ask Clint something important, but all it ends up being is, “Tired?”

Clint’s only been awake for about an hour. He’s exhausted, all the same. He doesn’t even answer before Coulson’s gently pushing him back against the bed, lowering it from sitting into lying position. “Sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go home.”

Clint repeats the word _home_ to himself until sleep sucks him in, the feel of it weird, even in silence, on his tongue.

*

Coulson takes Clint back to his house and stays with him for the better part of three days, while Clint mostly just sleeps, waking occasionally to pee and eat. He has to be helped with both, which is humiliating all over again, if not new. Before, at least, it was prison personnel, aware Clint was only a piece of meat, a bargaining chip, a toy that had long lost its shine. It’s different with Coulson, who might own him, but at least wants something aside from his sexual submission.

Clint has stopped trying to calculate what he owes Coulson, what the bill will look like when it comes due. He can’t actually count that high.

When Clint manages to stay awake long enough, Coulson packs him into the car and takes him into the office with him. There’s a couch in Coulson’s office, perfectly stuffed and soft. Clint spends the first few hours in the office sleeping, exhausted by the enormous task of riding over.

When he wakes up, there’s a StarkTab sitting on the arm. Coulson looks up and says, “Morning,” with a smile.

Clint looks at the clock behind Coulson’s desk. It is no longer morning. He smiles back tentatively. “Is there— can I help?”

Coulson mutters something about babysitting and then sighs. “No, but I appreciate the offer. Mostly it’s just expense forms, and nobody deserves that foisted upon them.”

He nods at the Tab. “It’s voice-activated. Just tell it what you want and it’ll bring it up. I figured you could watch a movie or something. I have earbuds somewhere...”

Coulson rustles around in a drawer for a moment and straightens with a pair of noise-cancelling earphones. “They’re kind of clunky, but they work on jet carriers, so I don’t complain. Well, not unless Tony deserves it.”

This last is said mostly to himself, so Clint doesn’t ask what that means. Coulson comes over and touches a few things on the Tab, getting it to wirelessly recognize the headset. He shows Clint how to pull up internet with his voice, Netflix, Pandora, the Library of Congress’ intranet and a few other sites that could entertain Clint for the rest of his life. When he holds it out, Clint takes the Tab carefully in his bandaged hands. He’s never touched anything so expensive in his life. Even his bow, which was the nicest thing Clint had ever owned, was second hand. They’d painted it up to look nice for the circus, but Carson hadn’t been willing to pay the kind of money necessary for a top-of-the-line model.

From the looks of it, and what Clint has seen in the windows of stores, he’s not even sure this model is on the market yet. He says, “I won’t break it.”

Coulson gets a smile that’s hard to understand and tells him, “If you manage, _please_ let me be the one to report the damage.”

If Clint didn’t know better, he’d say the look on Coulson’s face was mischievously gleeful. Even so, Clint will guard the damn thing with his life. “O—okay.”

Coulson squeezes Clint’s shoulder, light and careful and painless. “Have fun.”

Because he’s been instructed to, Clint will surely try.

*

When the three weeks are up, Clint goes in for the next round of surgery. It’s their first attempt at implanting anything under the skin; a mechanical augmentation to replace the tendons and muscles that no longer function. They put him under the same way they had last time, with the nurses waiting at his sides, ready to strap him down.

When he wakes up he is screaming. His body is in a world of pain he’s never experienced before. Gretchenko must have found him, must be torturing him, this is—this is—

Someone splashes a cup of cold water on his face and he turns his head to the side, spluttering, momentarily distracted from the searing pain radiating up his arms and legs. It’s Coulson and Dr. Brennemen. Brennemen’s saying sorry, is trying to tell Clint something, but the blood rushing through Clint’s head is beating out the sound of his voice. 

He is going to pass out soon. Please, god, he _has_ to, he had last time—there’s no blood loss, like there had been when the wounds were first inflicted, but he can’t survive this much pain. He tries to beg them to let him go, but his words aren’t coming out right; he can’t hear his own voice.

Coulson reaches out to touch him and Clint moans, tries to turn away. They’ve got him tied down to the table still. Clint wants to beg Coulson not to hurt him again. For purely selfish reasons, he wants Coulson to stay a safe place for Clint. 

A new thought hits him like a blow to the gut. Maybe it had gone wrong. Maybe his hands and feet are missing, maybe that’s why it hurts the way it does, maybe Coulson’s here to tell him it’s over—Coulson grabs Clint’s chin in a tight grip and says, loudly and firmly, “Move your fingers.” 

Clint whimpers, tries to beg, tries to explain to Coulson that Clint doesn’t own his body anymore. He retches when he opens his mouth and screams as he heaves into the basin Coulson’s holding for him. As soon as it’s over, Coulson’s in his face again, telling him to move his fingers. Clint holds Coulson’s gaze as best he can, focusing on Coulson’s eyes, and moves his fingers. 

He blanks out for a bit after that. He comes to when they put smelling salts under his nose. Coulson yells at him until Clint moves his toes, and then, mercifully, they let him pass out for good.

*

Coulson’s there again when Clint wakes up. He looks tired, human in a way he hasn’t seemed even at night, mumbling distractedly into his tea, his hair rumpled. Clint smiles groggily, then groans when the pain sets in.

Coulson calls the doctor and they put Clint through more tests. They poke the ends of his fingers and, even through the haze of pain that’s making his vision fade in and out, he can feel the individual pricks. 

“It worked,” Coulson says, sounding as relieved as Clint feels. “You just need to rest. I’m afraid we can’t give you any more painkillers; the nerves are still healing, and we don’t want to disrupt the neural activity.”

“I’ll be fine,” Clint says, because Coulson sounds honestly apologetic. “I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this.”

“That’s not actually reassuring,” Coulson says, a look on his face that Clint doesn’t recognize.

Clint says, “Oh,” but while he can stand the pain, his mental circuits are too fried by it to hold up his end of a conversation. 

Coulson sighs, a tiny, bitten-off sound, and Clint wonders, distantly, if he’s done something wrong. The pain is too intense for him to worry much, which is unusual, and kind of oddly nice. Coulson brings the water straw to Clint’s lips and tells him softly, “Drink.”

Clint takes a few sips. It helps to settle his stomach a little. He murmurs, “Thanks.”

After a second, Clint feels...something. It takes him a minute to identify the sensation as fingers carding through his hair. It’s heavenly. Even with the pain, it helps him to focus, to breathe. Coulson says softly, “You’re doing great, Clint. Just relax.”

Clint thinks, _it worked._ He thinks of the feel of a bow in his hands, a memory long since disallowed by him, and it’s hard to come up with the exact sensation, but that’s okay, because he’ll know again soon enough.

*

Neal and Peter have been checking in to the phone SHIELD supplied Clint with almost every day. Clint also has a way to check the email address he’d set up in prison for online learning, now, since Coulson refuses to take back the StarkTab. After the third, penultimate, surgery, Peter and Neal come out to Coulson’s house on a Saturday to actually see Clint in the flesh.

Clint has been working diligently at physical therapy, so while he’s not allowed to do much more than grasp light items, such as empty cups, or walk more than a few feet, he can do these things with normal movements, the way he had before the injuries. As such, he is the one to open the door when Neal and Peter ring the doorbell.

Elizabeth is there with them, which is a surprise partially because they hadn’t mentioned she was joining, and partially because Elizabeth almost never managed Saturdays off. Clint says softly, “Hi.”

Coulson’s there, then, ushering Clint back onto the sofa, because, “That’s enough for right now.”

Weirdly, though, Clint doesn’t feel threatened by the censure in Coulson’s voice. He’s gotten used to the fact that Coulson uses scolding as his way of showing...Clint’s not entirely sure what. He thinks most people would call it affection, but that doesn’t make logical sense to him, doesn’t fit in his world. Mostly, Clint just knows that voice doesn’t mean he’s about to be harmed, and that’s all he needs to know.

Coulson has made shots of espresso and mixed them with condensed milk. He’d made the mix for Clint the first day he was allowed caffeine after the second surgery and Clint actually couldn’t contain the pleased sound that had issued from the very deepest corner of his _soul._

Elizabeth has brought salted caramel tarts, left over from an event the night before, and Coulson has strawberries and grapes on hand. Clint has to be careful not to overtax his hands with taking pieces for bites. At some point, Coulson comes and sits next to him, feeding him, which should be amazingly awkward and humiliating, but Coulson has this way of making things seem normal and daring anyone to argue with his representation.

Peter starts the conversation with, “How’s Phil treating you?”

The tone of Peter’s question makes it sound like a joke and yet, somehow, not. Clint doesn’t say, “I wish he’d tell me what he wants,” because Coulson has been amazing, and Clint’s not greedy. Instead he says, “The best,” which has the advantage of being true. Coulson is kind when necessary, pushy when Clint loses focus, funny when Clint feels lost and uncertain. Although Clint admittedly worries about the price of all this, it does not change the fact that he thinks it will be worth it, for the way Coulson has treated him.

After a moment he adds, “I— I get a paycheck. For flying and helping with admin stuff. I got myself a few sweaters, but I’m mostly setting it aside. To pay you back.”

He’s in one of the sweaters right now, huddling into its warmth and softness, the fact that it is _his_. Peter starts to say, “That’s not nec—“ but Neal cuts him off with a strange look and says, “We’ll talk about repayment later.”

Clint appreciates Neal’s understanding. In Peter’s world, perhaps, favors can be handed out without reimbursement, but not in the world Clint has known. Clint would rather not pretend.

Neal diverts them all, telling Clint about the case they’d worked on last, which ended, “Hand to G-d, with Peter _riding a horse_ through Central Park.”

Clint laughs at that, can’t help himself, the image is too good. He learned to ride from one of the girls who mostly spent her time on horses in handstands, or other weird positions. He’s pretty sure he would remember how, if it came to it, but it had never been the most conventional of riding lessons. He can’t imagine just commandeering some park policeman’s horse. He’s pretty sure it’s the best thing ever that Peter did. 

To get back, but not in a cruel way, Peter tells Clint more about Sara, whom Neal has mentioned a couple of times, but evidently she really is a thing. Clint wants to know, “What does she look like?” wants to know, “Really, she’s an insurance investigator?” wants to know, “What’s it feel like, liking someone that way?” He doesn’t ask the last question.

Elizabeth asks politely if she can see his hands and Clint gives them to her. She avoids touching them, but can’t help staring at the tech that’s visible even below the barrier of skin. It almost looks as though Clint is a Cyborg. He explains it the way Dr. Brennemen has, “It’s basically cybergenic replacements for the synapses that were severed.”

“Does it hurt?” Elizabeth asks, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“It’ll get better,” Clint tells her, because he doesn’t like lying to her.

She looks down again. “It looks pretty badass.”

He snorts at that, not having expected it, but it’s true. Clint’s had a lot of things put in and on his body in the past decade. This is the first time he’s looked at any of it and thought, “Cool.”

“Hopefully the rest of the ladies will feel that way,” Clint tells her, waggling his eyebrows. He’s working on regaining the ability to have a normal conversation, something that sounds casual and fun.

He must not exactly manage, because Coulson stands with an absent, soft scratch to Clint’s head, and goes into the kitchen. Peter watches him, with a look Clint knows hides concern. After a second, Neal smiles his very best cover-up smile and says, “I don’t think you’ll need your hands to do the work for you. At least, not till ‘later.”

Elizabeth giggles, Peter rolls his eyes, Coulson comes back with more coffee and Clint, as much as he ever does, allows himself to relax.

*

The rehab fucking sucks. The actual work is hard—it’s painful, integrating tech with his remaining nerves and muscles, and a lot of his muscles had atrophied—but the hardest part is not overdoing it. Brennemen and Coulson have pounded it into his head that overwork will do as much damage as not doing his exercises, and he listens. He just constantly feels like he’s locked in a tiny room in his brain, screaming to be let out.

He does his best to distract himself from the fact that, while he’s healing, he’s not doing much else. He reads Coulson’s books, which gives them something to talk about, and watches way too much reality television on his StarkTab. It’s like he gets a window into other kinds of real life. He’s gotten Coulson hooked on _Supernanny_ , which Coulson loves for reasons Clint doesn’t entirely understand. 

It’s weeks of mostly waiting. And then, after the most extensive check-up they’ve done since the completion of his last surgery, Brennemen declares him well enough to start using a bow again. A mix of terror and elation almost lifts Clint off the ground. 

He hasn’t held a bow in over a decade, hasn’t used any long-distance weapons, he hasn’t _trained_ —the absurdity of his situation hits him all over again. Why did Coulson put so much time into Clint, when Clint doesn’t even have faith in himself? 

Coulson takes Clint down to the range immediately after the exam. Coulson doesn’t try to initiate conversation, which Clint appreciates. 

Coulson walks him over to the armory and introduces him to a woman named Jan, saying, “She’s the one who got your bow all set up for you.” She shakes Clint’s hand enthusiastically (it barely hurts, she doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary) and comes around the counter to talk to him. 

“I hear you’re quite the marksman! We don’t have many field agents who use nonstandard long-range weapons, so we’ve been having a good time getting everything set for you. We’re going to start you off with a recurve, laminated fiberglass, but you let us know if you need any modifications.” She opens the case she brought with her and turns it towards Clint. 

It’s the most beautiful bow he’s ever seen. Clint reaches for it slowly, looking to Jan and then Coulson to make sure he’s allowed. It’s light, much lighter than he expected, and smooth and cool in his hand. Belatedly, he wipes his palms off on his sweats. His fingerprints are on the bow already. 

“Coulson gave us your measurements,” Jan says, smiling with the kind of pride that Clint’s used to seeing in professionals who like to do their jobs well. “I hope you like it.” 

“She’s beautiful,” Clint says, running his hand up the long arch of it. “Never had a new bow before,” he murmurs. “Just used Trickshot’s old one.” 

Coulson starts beside him. “You mean—you made the shots you did using a hand-me-down weapon?” 

Clint shrugs. “He repainted it and gave me new strings. Had to reuse arrows till they pretty much shattered, but it wasn’t all that bad.” 

“Let’s get it strung and let you try it out,” Jan says. She hands him the bowstring, which feels almost metallic. He pretends he knows what it’s made out of and goes to string his bow.

She stops him almost immediately. “Oh—we’ve got bowstringers you can use,” she says hastily, reaching up to stop his hand. He flinches. Her eyes tighten for a second, but crinkle again with an easy smile. “I’m guessing you haven’t done a lot of professional shooting, have you?” 

She takes the bow from him and strings it using a device that curves the bow to make it easier to string. “It’s a lot safer,” she says, handing the bow back to him. “You’re going to take the sting off exactly the same way; I’ll be here to show you how when you’re done.” 

Clint takes the bow back and tries not to feel too stupid. Coulson must think Clint’s been tricking him this whole time, pretending he knows anything about archery. They’d brought him here to shoot, and he apparently knows less about bows than some kid with Nerf weapons. 

Coulson puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder and leads him over to the farthest range. The target’s set maybe 25m away, which Clint would find insulting if he weren’t suddenly convinced he’s going to try to draw the bow and have it snap back in his face. 

“Remember, we’re limiting it to ten draws,” Coulson says. “So you may not even have time to warm up properly. We’re not judging you based on your accuracy today.” Brennemen had said that the danger for now lay in too much repetition, but Clint could safely exert the amount of pressure and stress necessary to draw a bow. Clint’s pretty sure Brennemen has no idea how much strength it actually takes to draw a bow properly, but Clint’s not going be the one to tell him. Clint fingers his bow and nods, letting Coulson think Clint believes him. 

The last time he had this much riding on one moment was when the cops had been asking him questions about Barney. He’s got more to lose now; he’d already lost Barney by then, he’d just been hanging on to hope. He’s got a job on the line now, a new life with SHIELD, with Neal and Peter looking out for him. He’s got Coulson, who’s still got his hand on Clint’s shoulder. 

He pulls an arrow out of the quiver Coulson’s holding (it feels like it’s made out of the same material as his bow, almost frighteningly light) and slowly positions it. Even though his hands have been rebuilt, his eye and arms and heart remember this. His fingers are already aching and the tip of the arrow is shaking just slightly as he sights the target. It feels perfect, feels like he’s just been waiting for someone to give him this moment so he can finally relax, finally _fit_ again, in a way he hasn’t been allowed to since he was under the bigtop with his family. 

He pulls back the string, releases his breath, and lets go. 

Ten shots. The first hits on the edge of the bullseye, but seven are right at the center, crowding for space, and two are on the floor. Used to be that if Clint hit one arrow with another, the first would split down the middle. It’d been one of his best tricks. Apparently they make arrows stronger now, so the last two had just bounced. 

He lowers his bow, suddenly aware his body is screaming at him in pain and he’s breathing heavily and Coulson’s looking at him in a way no one’s looked at him in a very long time. Clint wraps his hands around his bow (his, made for him, belongs to him) and smiles.

*

Clint starts to understand Coulson’s SuperNanny addiction about a month after they begin letting him on the range again, when he still can’t go for very long, but he can hit anything they put in front of him. Or behind him or slightly caddy-corner, for that matter, under any conditions.

In the time when he’s not allowed to shoot—far, far too much of it—Coulson runs him through sniper training, but if there is one thing Clint has learned from prison, it’s how to see and not be seen, how to hide himself when battered and bleeding. Rooftops in the snow don’t much phase Clint anymore.

They start basic hand-to-hand and sometimes Coulson has to drag Clint away, because it’s like learning to use his body as a damn arrow, sleek and hard and deadly. Clint thought a million times about fighting back in prison, but had been taught the hard way he could never win, not with what he’d known. He’s starting to think that if he has to go back, between Neal and Coulson, he’ll have a chance.

Clint also has required meetings with a SHIELD psychiatrist every week. She's laid back and smart and Clint doesn't dislike her, but he doesn't trust her either. When he finally gets up the nerve to ask Coulson what happens if he doesn't pass his psych eval, Coulson tells him, "Let me worry about that." Clint, for the most part, tries.

What Coulson has not done in the time Clint has been with him is introduce him to his other assets. Clint knows he’s not the only specialist Coulson handles; at times Coulson murmurs about a team, and there are late night phone calls with a fair amount of unimpressed silence and quiet words of guidance, but Clint has no idea who is on the other end.

Until the day Tony Stark comes striding onto the range as Coulson has Clint running one of the harder simulations. It’s not hard, not so much for Clint, but it’s at least more challenging than most. He’s having a good time.

He only barely manages the last three shots. He’s distracted by the fact that Iron Man, fucking _Iron Man_ , in the flesh, has strolled onto the range and is asking Coulson, “Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding my calls?”

Coulson acts like not only is this an everyday event. It’s not, Clint’s been with Coulson the better part of a year now, and while Coulson does leave at times to handle other work concerns, Clint would know if Iron Man regularly showed up to hang around because, well, _fucking Iron Man_. Coulson, though just asks rather mildly, “Other than the usual?”

The simulation has run its course, so Clint lets his bow drop to his side. He doesn’t let go of it. It’s not as if he’s going to shoot anyone, he just...feels better with it there. He doesn’t regret the choice when Stark seems to notice he’s in the room and gives him a lookover before returning his attention to Coulson. “Oh my G-d, was Natasha right? Are you cheating on us?”

Coulson has a tell when he’s holding back the desire to rearrange someone’s face, or, at the very least, put itching powder in their underwear. It’s a slight change in his body posture. Clint notes he’s got it going on now. Politely, he says, “Tony Stark, meet Clint Barton. Clint, meet my least favorite part of my day job.”

“I’m hurt,” Stark says, and it’s all arrogance and nonchalance except for the parts that aren’t, the parts Neal has taught Clint to notice. It’s both fascinating and terrifying, especially when Stark turns to him. “So...Clint, is it? Clint. What have you got that makes Agent love you more than us?”

Clint has no idea how to answer that, so he takes a shot in the dark. “Perfect aim?”

A delighted grin spreads on Stark’s face and Clint honestly can’t tell if he has said something right or wrong. Stark is still looking at Clint, but it’s clear he’s talking to Coulson when he says, “Oh, tell me we’re keeping him.”

“ _I’m_ keeping him. The rest of you will just corrupt him.”

Stark’s eyes sparkle. “I do enjoy a good bit of corruption now and then.”

Clint makes himself stand his ground. Iron Man saves people, he reminds himself. Stark isn’t going to hurt him. This is...harmless flirting? Something like that. Clint files away the part where Coulson plans to keep him. He’ll think about that later, when he has time to pick it apart. 

Coulson does sigh, then. He opens his mouth, but not before Stark is already speaking again. Stark is looking down the range, and then back to Clint’s bow. Clint forces himself not to hug it to himself. It really is his, they made it for him. But Stark just looks at Coulson and says, “Fiberglass, really? That’s the best you guys can do?”

“Stark,” Coulson says, and there’s not much tone to it, but somehow it has the feel of a dare, a strangely exasperated dare.

“No, but, seriously, he’s ours, right? Because we’ve needed a sniper for forever, and bringing new people in every time we wear one out isn’t working, we all know it. And since this has clearly been the secret project that I’ve very respectfully not pried all-too-much into for the better part of eleven months, I think we deserve it, if we’re all being honest with each other.”

Clint couldn’t say why, but he has a sixth sense that Coulson is getting a headache. Nonetheless, the man just says, “Clint, meet one of your future teammates.”

“Wait,” Clint says. He doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but evidently his brain doesn’t give a shit. And then, because they’re both looking at him now, he kind of has to finish. “Tony Stark’s team is the Avengers.”

And that gleeful look is back on Stark’s face, like he’s just been invited to a cake buffet full of his favorite flavors. He says, “Oh, Agent. You _have_ to bring him to dinner.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Stark. I handle you, not the other way around.”

“Don’t make me beg. You know neither of us enjoys that.”

“Au contraire,” Coulson says, one eyebrow partially raised.

“Fine, I’ll invite him personally.” Stark turns his attention back to Clint. “Wanna come to dinner at Avengers Tower tonight? We’re having game night afterward, and I’m pretty sure it’s Steve’s turn to pick, which is always extra-specially hilarious. Say yes, it’ll be a good time.”

Clint looks at Coulson, because Clint’s not actually sure what his rights are regarding his coming and going from Coulson’s supervision. Coulson glances at Clint and gives in, “We’ll stop by, Stark.”

“You weren’t invited, Agent.”

“See you around seven,” Coulson tells him.

*

Stark Tower is enormous. Clint shifts uneasily in the elevator, which is three times bigger than Clint had expected it to be, and which is playing hard rock music through the speakers. All the surfaces are reflective. Clint looks like a dumb trainee in his SHIELD-issue clothes, but the suit Neal gave him is too small now, and up until now, Clint hasn’t needed anything else. Coulson looked a bit upset when Clint met him in his office to drive over, and promised to take Clint shopping one day. Judging from the reality shows Clint’s seen, buying clothes seems like an ordeal that he’d rather not undergo.

But he’d prefer to be doing almost anything other than meeting the Avengers for dinner and board games. Coulson glances over at him and Clint tries not to look nervous. Coulson wants Clint to do this, wants Clint to become part of the team.

“You’ll be fine,” Coulson says, putting his hand on Clint’s shoulder and rubbing Clint’s neck with his thumb. Clint leans into it, but snaps back to attention when Coulson draws his arm away. The doors open and Clint’s mouth drops open.

“I feel like I’m on MTV Cribs,” he mutters, exiting the elevator behind Coulson, practically stepping on his heels. The carpet is soft and thick under his feet, the walls are mostly made of glass—everything looks expensive and fragile. He is going to break everything. He’s going to trip and fall and break Tony Stark’s house, and he’ll get kicked out of SHIELD and shamed for eternity.

“Agent!” Tony says, striding into the room. “What did I tell you about breaking into my elevators? JARVIS is there for a reason. You’re making him feel neglected.”

“I’m sure he’ll recover,” Coulson says drily. Clint waves hello at Tony when Tony greets him. Tony’s maniacal smile is back.

“Son of Coul!” The words enter the room before the man, loud enough that Clint flinches. Then the motherfucking god of thunder comes in. He looks even taller in person, and his hair really is blond and long and perfect, and _how do these people actually exist?_ Thor pulls Coulson in for a hug, pounding him on the back. Then he grabs Clint and pulls him in for an embrace. It’s like being surrounded by a cocoon of muscle. Clint freezes, his hands twitching—Coulson hadn’t let bring Clint bring his bow, but it wouldn’t matter anyway, there’s no way Clint would be able to stop this man if he decided to hurt Clint.

Thor steps back and holds Clint at arm’s length. “It’s good to meet you, friend of Phil,” Thor says, with a smile that takes over his whole face.

“Yeah,” Clint says, doing his best not to use the evasion techniques that his unarmed instructor’s been drilling into him for months. Thor’s not an enemy, not yet, and Clint shouldn’t fight him no matter what. Thor’s part of the team, so Clint will do whatever’s necessary to keep him happy.

“Where are the others?” Coulson asks, stepping smoothly between Thor and Clint, resting his hand on Clint’s lower back.

“In the kitchen,” Tony says. “They have this weird idea that you have to make home-cooked meals yourself.”

Clint doesn’t recognize a single thing in the kitchen, but he does recognize the people in it. The Black Widow—whom Coulson addresses as Natasha, which means that Clint might be expected to do the same, even though the thought that she’s an actual real human person with a _first name_ is still stumping him—shakes Clint’s hand gently. “We’ve not heard enough about you,” she says, glancing over at Coulson. “Coulson’s been keeping you a secret.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” says—oh. Captain America. Him, Clint would recognize anywhere. Coulson’s got pictures of him in his house, he’s got comic books, he’s even got a collector’s book of cards with Cap’s face on them. These people aren’t supposed to be real. “I’m Steve,” says Captain America. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Clint stutters something that is supposed to be “You, too,” but that gets stuck in his throat halfway there.

“Is dinner ready?” Coulson asks, covering for Clint’s awkward silence.

“Almost,” says the last man in the room. Clint barely recognizes him, but it’s got to be Hulk. He’s standing at the stove, stirring some vegetable in a giant pan. It smells amazing. “Hi,” he says, waving at Clint, a wooden spoon still in his hand. “I’m Bruce. Welcome to the circus.” Clint knows circuses. He’s used to circuses. This—this faux family of people he’s only ever seen on TV—this is something else entirely.

They stay in the kitchen while Bruce and Captain America finish making dinner. Tony, under protest (loud, creative, and thorough protests), sets the table. Clint offers to help, which makes Tony happy, but Coulson tells him not to. Clint feels lightheaded. He’s got to think about serving two masters now. Like he had with Gretchenko and Neal; he’s got to make himself safe in two separate spaces. He figures Tony’s the one most likely to ignore Coulson’s claim on Clint to lay his own. It would have been better if Coulson had let Clint help, let Clint start ingratiating himself here. Coulson’s going to drop Clint soon. His rehab is wrapping up, he’s going to become part of the Avengers team, who Coulson almost never sees. At least they’ll have the evenings with bad television and good books.

They sit outside on a balcony to eat dinner. The view of the city is amazing, and Clint feels better knowing that he’s got more exit options out here than he had inside. Coulson nudges Clint’s side when he sees Clint eyeing the overhanging gargoyles.

“So,” Steve says, passing the main dish around the table. “Tell us about yourself.”

Clint looks at Steve, who, when he smiles, looks so much like Captain America it makes Clint want to swoon, and then looks to Coulson. Coulson probably doesn’t want Clint to tell them anything about prison; it wouldn’t reflect well on SHIELD. “I’m a sniper,” he says, because Tony had said that would make Clint useful. “I, um—I use a bow,” he says, when that doesn’t seem to be enough.

“Right,” Tony says, drawing out the word. “So you’re the strong, silent type, hmm?” Clint opens his mouth to agree, can’t think of anything to say, and just nods. Coulson’s said once or twice that Clint talks too much, but Clint’s comfortable around Coulson. Clint’s started to expect that whatever Coulson wants from him, it isn’t going to hurt him too badly.

Bruce starts in with an explanation of what they’re all eating—vegetables with names Clint doesn’t know, sauces he’d be hard-pressed just to pronounce—and Clint leans against Coulson’s side as subtly as he can. Once they’ve all served themselves, Clint realizes they’re supposed to eat their dinners with chopsticks. He picks them up slowly, looking at Coulson’s hand to figure out how this is supposed to work.

He loses track of the conversation while he tries to mirror Coulson’s hand. Coulson’s right-handed, which makes it harder. Clint’s fine motor skills still haven’t completely come online, and he’d overdone it on the range earlier, trying to work out his stress. Coulson nudges him and Clint looks up, realizes that they’re waiting for him to answer a question.

“Steve asked where you trained,” Coulson supplies under his breath.

“Should I—how much am I supposed to tell them?” Clint whispers back

“However much you want,” Coulson says.

“I learned in the circus,” Clint says. That seems to spark the rest of them, who bombard him with questions that he can barely keep up with. At some point, Natasha brushes by his seat on her way back to her own chair. He hadn’t realized she’d left. He looks down in his lap to see a fork she’s discreetly slipped him.

His dinner, when the questions slow down enough for him to eat some of it, tastes amazing. He compliments Bruce, who brushes off the compliment but nonetheless looks pleased. The conversation between the rest of the team is almost faster than Clint can follow. They tease each other, they argue—once or twice, it sounds tense, sounds like it might become a fight—but there’s an ease they have with each other. Clint stares down at his plate, at the fork which he’s dropped three times, and wonders if he’s going to be able to make Coulson happy. There’s no way Clint can learn to be this—this comfortable—around other people.

“Hey!” Tony says, snapping Clint out of his thoughts. “Pass the string beans, Butterfingers.” After a second Clint realizes Tony’s talking to him. He flushes and has to really concentrate on what he’s doing to get the dish across to Tony. Clint’s not used to eating with other people; Coulson usually pretends he doesn’t notice when Clint screws up, unless he decides he needs to badger Clint about straining himself less. Clint doesn’t risk eating any more after that.

“They’re not making you stay in SHIELD quarters, are they?” Bruce asks, when most of them are done eating.

“No,” Clint says. “Coulson’s letting me stay with him.” Clint looks over at Coulson, who seems stiffer than usual. Clint doesn’t know if Coulson had wanted Clint to lie, to deflect, but it’s too late now. He’ll apologize later; hopefully, he’ll be able to make up for it. He doesn’t want to make Coulson look bad.

“Very interesting,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair. “And when were you thinking of moving in? Not that I’m offering to help,” he adds hastily. “That’s Thor and Steve’s job; they’re practically made of muscle. Very good at lifting boxes,” he says. Steve rolls his eyes but Thor looks pleased.

Clint’s heart is pounding much faster than can be healthy. He doesn’t want to leave Coulson—Coulson’s house, he doesn’t want to move into this tower with people he doesn’t know, this world he never expected to be a part of. He hadn’t even been able to manage the halfway house. “What did I tell you about stealing my assets?” Coulson says.

“We’re all your assets,” Tony says, stressing the first half of the word and wiggling his eyebrows at Clint. “Some of us are just better at it.”

“He’s not moving anywhere,” Coulson says. Clint feels uncomfortably grateful for Coulson’s offer of sanctuary.

“But he’s an Avenger,” Tony says. “Or he will be, once you stop babying him. None of us got special treatment,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m liable to get jealous if this kind of behavior continues.”

“His idea has some merit,” Steve says apologetically. “The living situation has served to foster a better team unity. And the jet leaves from here, so transportation would be easier.”

“The _jet_?” Clint says. He’s never flown before, but he wants to so badly.

“Oh, baby, we have so many toys to show you,” Tony says. Clint swallows down the bile that instinctively rises in his throat. Tony’s probably referring to weapons, or cars, or—or fucking Legos or something. Probably he isn’t referring to needles or handcuffs or phallic objects.

Even so, Tony’s smile is…carnivorous. It’s strangely unthreatening. Clint can’t decide if Tony just doesn’t know how to do it properly, or if his eagerness just gets ahead of him sometimes. Glancing at Coulson, Clint suspects the latter.

Steve saves him from having to respond, in any case, by saying, “Later, Tony. Now, Telestrations.”

Tony sighs. “Cap, how many times do I have to tell you you’re missing the point of that game?”

The expression on Steve’s face gives Clint the feeling Steve is winding Tony up just a bit, because he can. Clint suppresses the urge to laugh. Steve “compromises” with, “Fine, Pictionary, then.”

“Only if you’re on my team,” Natasha says, and nobody argues with her.

From this, Clint learns two of the cardinal rules of the Avengers: nobody ever wins an argument against Natasha, _ever_ , and if you’re playing a game that involves drawing pictures, unless Steve is on your team, you’re going to get stomped.

*

Evidently, before Clint, Coulson spent a lot of time with the Avengers. Not as much, say, as he spends with Clint, but there was more interaction than Clint would have believed, given what he’s been privy to for the last year. Once they’ve found out about Clint, though, they have no interest in letting him get back to his formerly quiet existence of pleasing Coulson and occasionally reporting back to Neal and Peter.

Natasha, who watches Clint carefully, too carefully, seems to peel back layers with her gaze, talks Coulson into handing Clint over for hand-to-hand with her. She doesn’t have to work hard. She’s Coulson’s favorite, Clint can tell. He can’t blame Coulson. She reminds Clint of the girls who could do three or four acts in the circus, make sense anywhere, fluid. Unlike them, Natasha wears a layer of danger under her skin. But she’s also quiet, thoughtful, and undemanding. 

Coulson says, “Do _not_ break him,” and makes her read Clint’s medical files. Clint shows up to their first session expecting questions and perhaps pity, but instead she just warms him up and then figures out what he can and cannot do. By the end of the session she has pounded him into the ground. He has the bruises to show for it. He also knows three new defensive maneuvers and actually managed to trip her up once with one of them by telegraphing another. She’d smiled then, sharp and proud, and Clint hadn’t known how not to smile back.

Tony has a new bow and arrows for him within a week. Clint tells Tony, in a moment of defiance he’s entirely sure Tony will find a way to take out of his hide later, “I’m not giving up my other bow.”

Coulson gave Clint that bow. He’s keeping it. Tony just waves a hand, though. “Can’t speak for people’s tastes.”

Tony’s bow is somehow even lighter than SHIELD’s, and it has a flexibility Clint has never even imagined in the weapon. He takes it to the range when nobody’s around and tries out shots that he’s pretty sure are actually impossible. He makes about fifty percent of them. The others he writes off as being physically beyond the realm of the possible.

Tony also makes him arrows as strong and as light as SHIELD’s, but capable of splitting down the middle if necessary. The two of them spend the better part of a day geeking out over Clint’s ability to halve arrows. Coulson comes to collect Clint as he’s leaving the Tower and Tony says, “Oh, c’mon, Agent, let him stay for dinner. You can stay, too, if absolutely necessary.”

Coulson asks Clint, “Do you want to stay?”

Clint doesn’t know the correct answer. He gets that Coulson’s not really going to be mad either way. Coulson wants him to bond with the team, and he’s probably ready for Clint to stop hanging around him, being dependent. At the same time, Clint doesn’t want to stay if Coulson’s not going to. He doesn’t know that he can handle the other five on their own. He’s actually fairly certain they’re not planning on initiating him all at once, none of them seem _cruel_ , but Coulson’s presence will deter that, if he’s wrong.

“Yes, of course he does,” Tony is saying.

Coulson is just waiting for Clint to respond and Clint realizes that if Coulson is going to leave him here, then the others have his permission to do as they please, and saying no is only delaying the inevitable. “Yeah, I— I’ll stay.”

Something flickers in Coulson’s gaze, but Clint can’t tell what, which drives him crazy, mostly because he’s seen everything of Coulson in the past year and until now, he’s never had trouble reading him once he’d figured out the key. Tony asks, “You too, Agent?”

“No,” Coulson says. “I have a meeting.”

“You should be more firm about your working hours, you know. It’s not good for your health, always working overtime.”

Coulson, as usual, ignores Tony. He tells Clint, “I’ll see you at home.”

Clint decisively ignores the warm curling sensation in his stomach at the way Coulson so casually calls it “home” for him as well. He nods. Coulson’s smile is small and private when he tells Clint, “Have a good time.”

Tony, of course, gangpresses Clint up the stairs, where Clint ends up admitting that he’s okay in the kitchen, he used to help at the orphanage and circus. It’s a different experience entirely with Bruce in charge, his quiet voice instructing, pointing out different options, and if washing and stirring and helping out where he can isn’t necessarily exciting, it is kind of nice, calming. 

Thor, when he arrives, greets Clint with his now-routine embrace, and Clint is getting used to realizing it is a gesture of welcome and affection. He can’t quite convince his emotions of that, but his mind has caught on. Steve does his part mostly by taking Tony off their hands for a bit, distracting him in the way it seems only Steve can.

When dinner is ready, Clint helps serve, and eats more than he really wants—Thor keeps putting more helpings on his plate, as through worried about serving with a scrawny teammate—and is never once touched in a way that sets his hair on edge. Tony tries to convince him to spend the night, and Clint thinks about whether he is supposed to say yes, if this is a test, but when he quietly states, “I want to go home,” Tony just calls up a car for him and sends him precisely where he has asked.

*

Clint stays for movie night a week or so later. He’s had a long day. Tony’s been poking around at his tech—Tony is possibly kind of in love with Clint’s “bionic man” parts, as they have been so dubbed—which is painful. Clint doesn’t really mind, since whenever Tony plays around, he ends up with about thirty percent more capacity to do _something_ than he had before. And if he’s honest about the situation, Clint kind of likes the way Tony is pretty careful, and never hurts him more than absolutely necessary to get the job done.

Coulson has agreed to stay, too, which is unusual, but he’d taken a look at Clint before leaving, and whatever he’d seen in Clint’s expression or body language, he’d said, “I can work from here.”

They’re watching _My Beautiful Laundrette_ because it’s Bruce’s turn to pick and Clint suspects Bruce takes a kind of perverse joy in forcing some culture on the team. Miss Potts—”Pepper, Clint, honestly,”—has joined them, in town for the time being. It’s interesting to watch Tony around her, the way he fills both more space in her presence, and yet loses so many of the edges that make him dangerous.

Clint thinks it makes Thor a little bit sad when Pepper’s in town, since he brings up Jane more than usual, and he brings up Jane pretty often to begin with. Clint is starting to consider the possibility that Jane is actually, truly, made out of unicorns and rainbows. Even Tony seems to sincerely think she’s got it going on.

In any case, Clint has somehow ended up between one arm of the sofa and Steve, who’s sitting between him and Thor. Natasha is sitting on the floor, her back leaning up against Steve’s legs. Clint has noticed the casual way they all steal inside each other’s space without any obvious expectations, but it is still mystifying to him. 

Coulson has commandeered an armchair, and Tony and Pepper are curled up in a loveseat. Bruce is on the floor, his back resting against the loveseat, and Clint doesn’t miss the way both Tony and Pepper’s hands or feet occasionally dip down to make contact. Far from shying away from it, Bruce almost seems to expand into the touch.

Clint is paying attention, he is, and the movie is pretty good, but his body is desperately in need of rest, between the fine-tuning and his range time, and being around the team, learning to balance what they want with what Coulson wants. Navigating the waters of his priorities is exhausting. He can’t say when he falls asleep. Previously, the only person he’s managed to fall asleep in the presence of is Coulson. But he must, because he wakes up with an arm around his shoulders, his face tucked into something that feels like a padded wall and before he even knows what has happened, Steve is on the floor underneath him and someone is yelling and then he’s being pulled off. He realizes what he’s done—Steve looks horrified—and curls into the smallest ball possible, the smallest target. He knows it won’t make a difference, not with these people—they’ve got the Black Widow, for fuck’s sake—but he can’t help it, it’s pure instinct.

There’s a tiny, tiny part of him that isn’t completely overcome by terror. That tiny part is glad that they’re finally going to make their move, show him what they can do, what’s expected of him. Only, they don’t.

It takes what feels like forever, but is probably closer to a few minutes, for Clint to realize nobody’s touching him. The room is quiet, not even the movie playing. Clint can hear the others breathing, but nobody’s moving, approaching, doing anything but waiting. He must shift slightly, because Coulson says, “Clint.”

Clint really, really does not want to straighten out. For one thing, he’s just attacked Captain America, who was evidently just letting Clint drool on his sweater. For another, his entire team now knows that he’s even more of a fucking useless wreck than indicated by the visible scars and ink and the fact that his hands and feet are only about a third human.

Since Clint’s life is not about what Clint wants, and Clint damn well knows that, he makes himself uncurl, go to his knees. He can’t make himself meet anyone’s gaze. They’re going to have to order him to do that. He does whisper, “Sorry.”

He hears movement, but he knows the sound of Coulson walking, so he’s able to make himself stay still, not run. Coulson folds himself to the floor, graceful even in descent and Clint wishes he could hate Coulson the way he had Gretchenko, that this could be clean and easy, but it won’t be, it will hurt so much more than anything anyone but Neal could ever have done to him.

Coulson says, “I’m going to touch you, Clint. Try not to hit me.”

Clint’s fully awake, now. He’s not going to do anything stupid. Coulson puts his fingers lightly to Clint’s face, gently steers him so Clint has very little choice but to look at Coulson. Coulson tells him, “We all have nightmares, Clint. Every single last one of us. Even Pepper.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and Clint’s not sure he understands what that has to do with anything. Because he’s still exhausted, the adrenaline that flooded him upon waking pouring out, Clint just blinks and says, “I hit Steve.”

“Well, not to shatter your ego, or anything, but I’m pretty sure Steve let that happen. He’s a hard guy to take off guard. Also, he could bench press you.”

Coulson has a point. But even considering that, none of this makes sense. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Fallen asleep?” Steve asks, from off to the side and above Clint, where he has reseated himself on the couch. “Been human?”

Clint finds himself looking up at Steve, unsure of how to explain that he doesn’t know what the rules are. With Gretchenko, it would have been possible that those _were_ included in the rules. From the tone of Steve’s voice, though, they’re obviously not, here. Clint just repeats, “Hit you.”

Steve tilts his head, clearly a little puzzled by the response. Finally, he says, “No harm done, Clint.”

There’s an awkward stretch of silence in which Clint can feel eyes boring into him from almost every direction, Natasha’s having the most weight. He does not want to know what she sees. Then Coulson asks, “Stark, have you made a floor for him despite our protestations that he’s not coming here to live?”

“It’s not finished,” Tony says. “But there’s a bedroom.”

Coulson’s hands slip down to Clint’s. Clint has them clenched, more out of habit than anything else. Coulson works them open and takes them, hefting Clint to his feet. “C’mon.”

Clint goes, because Coulson has told him to. He fights to keep himself from begging Coulson not to leave him alone in a place where he’s never been before, but in the end he doesn’t have to, because Coulson just takes over a chair in the room and says, “Sleep.”

It’s easy, then, despite the unfamiliar surroundings, with the sound of Coulson’s breathing, the light tap of his fingers against the StarkTab now and then. Despite everything, Clint drifts right off.

*

Clint awakens in what he realizes—being fully rested and not blank with humiliation and lingering terror—is the most comfortable bed he has ever been in. He’s not sure he could have imagined a bed like this existed. It’s like lying on heaven. Clint manages to resist the urge to roll around, but only because he notices that Coulson has fallen asleep on the other side, atop the covers and still dressed.

Clint has never awakened after Coulson and he wonders how long the man stayed up past when Clint had fallen asleep. Clint’s glad Natasha’s been teaching him about how to sneak around when he manages to actually get out of the bedroom without waking Coulson. He needs to think, and he can’t do it with Coulson lying there, face softer in sleep, like when Clint does something he’s proud of, or Natasha says something unexpectedly sweet. He can’t do it with the awareness that he was in a bed next to Coulson all night long and the only thing Coulson did was take off his shoes and sleep.

He walks around the floor, noticing how the design of it creates small cubby holes of space to curl up in scattered throughout, as well as expansive views of the city. Everything from the door handles to the kitchen utensils is broader than normal, easier to grasp. The entire floor reminds him strangely of his bow, the other bows Tony has made. It _fits_ him, down to the colors and the layout.

Clint is never entirely sure how to feel about JARVIS. On the one hand, he’s a computer, and Clint is human. On the other hand, most of Tony’s computers are way smarter than Clint. And on the third, mutant hand, Clint suspects JARVIS spies on them for Tony. That said, he usually knows the answers to things, so Clint queries, “JARVIS?”

“How may I be of assistance, Agent Barton?”

Clint likes how polite JARVIS is, the soft, cultured tone of his voice. “Um. Tony. He said this was my floor?”

“Master Stark designed it with your needs and desires in mind, sir. Modifications can be made, of course.”

“But I don’t live here.”

“Master Stark has never allowed anything so mundane as numerous refusals to deter him from what he wishes to exist. So far as he is concerned, you will eventually join the team in the tower, and when you do so, he will key the floor’s security however you so wish.”

“Security?”

“So as to enable you to enjoy the privacy of your own space, sir.”

“But... the others would have the codes, right?”

“Master Stark builds back doors as a matter of security protocol. Otherwise, the codes and other measures would be shared only with whom you chose to do so.”

Clint blinks, processing that information. “Did he do this for the other snipers, JARVIS?”

“They were no concern of his, Agent Barton. They did not, as Master Stark would put it, have the right stuff.”

Clint swallows. “Thank you.”

Clint rubs a hand over his head. The right stuff. He could almost laugh. He’s entirely sure the other snipers had been good at their jobs, just not...available for team recreation. Clint can acknowledge, though, that he’s getting far more for his services than he would have ever considered reasonable. Even the shower controls are made to suit his coordination issues. And the privacy allowance is both amazing and a little cruel, he thinks. Because they all know he will only use it when allowed to do so.

Still, Clint can’t help that he kind of loves everything about the space, because Tony was evidently focused wholly and completely on him when creating it, which is novel and...nice. He hopes when they want him they’ll be okay with him coming to them, keeping this space for his own. If Coulson is going to kick him out eventually, Clint can’t really think of anywhere he’d rather go.

*

They schedule Clint’s move for two weeks away. Tony says it’ll give Clint time to pack. Tony must think everyone has as much stuff as he does, since packing only takes Clint about an hour.

After that first night in the tower, Clint doesn’t get a full night’s sleep. As if to punish him for trying to escape, the nightmares come. It’s good that they remind him where he came from, what he is.

He starts almost looking forward to Coulson kicking him out—Clint keeps waking Coulson up with his screaming, and every time Coulson comes into the guest room to check on him, Clint worries that Coulson’s going to finally shut him up. Coulson never listens to Clint’s apologies, never asks for anything in return. The debt between them is becoming bigger than Clint can calculate.

He knows one way he can simplify things is to talk with Neal. Clint usually allows Neal to initiate contact, which he does by way of phone or email at least once a week, but Neal regularly reminds him he can call whenever he needs. Clint’s going to be adding another protector to his list; he needs to make sure he can satisfy them all. He waits to call Neal until he’s got time to walk a few blocks away from SHIELD. He buys a cell phone at a corner stand. He doesn’t know if any of that will keep word of his conversation from getting back to Coulson, if Coulson’s monitoring him, but it can’t hurt.

Neal answers his phone on the first ring, which is a relief; delays have come to mean Neal’s working on a case. Neal’s cases seem to involve a disproportionate amount of violence, given the department he works in. Peter probably expects the same kind of work that Coulson’s going to want from Clint.

Neal sounds happy when he answers. “Clint! It’s always so nice to hear from you. How are things going?”

“Good,” he says, because he’s got a roof over his head and food to eat and a job. As long as he has those things, as long as he can hold onto them, whatever he has to do to keep them, he’ll be good. 

“How’s Coulson?” Neal asks,

“Fine,” Clint says. “I’m moving on soon, so—so he’s doing good.”

“Moving on? What do you mean?”

“I’m—they’re adding me to a team. I’m moving into group quarters.”

“Oh.” Neal sounds about as excited as Clint feels, which is not very. “You know it won’t be like last time, don’t you?” Neal says. “Coulson wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Coulson’s done with me already,” Clint explains. “He doesn’t seem to want anything other than for me to do my job; he knows I’ll do whatever he wants. The new guys...” Meeting new people, in Clint’s experience, almost never ends well.

“Coulson’s not done with you, and the new guys will be fine.” Clint forgets sometimes how naïve Neal can be. He thinks that everyone should be able to have a life as good as his, if they just try for it.

“Look, I just—I called because I thought I’d let you know that—that I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay you back. They’ve started giving me a regular salary now, as a specialist, but I think that’ll go towards my medical bills and all the food they let me eat this year. But when there’s leftover, I’ll send it to you as fast as I can.” There’s dead silence on the other end of the line. “I can try to get money to you sooner,” Clint says, “I didn’t ask about that, but I should have; I’ll get it to you. Or if you...” He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the wall. “If you want me to pay you back in another way, I can ask for time off.”

“Clint—what is it exactly that you think you owe me?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Clint says, finally unable to hold back anymore. “You won’t tell me! I don’t have any money, and you don’t want to fuck me, and I don’t think that you ever really needed me to read any fucking books—I don’t know what you want, so I can’t give it to you, and I need...I need to figure this out. I can’t owe this many people at once,” he says softly. “That’s how it was before Gretchenko. And I can’t do that again.”

“You owe me nothing,” Neal says, breathless and intense. “You saved my life, you sacrificed yourself for me—there’s nothing I could ask for that you haven’t already given.”

“Unless you want to fuck me,” Clint offers, because he needs to find something to give Neal. “Or hurt me, you know I—“ The words twist coming out of his mouth; they’re old words, old thoughts. Same Clint. “You know I’m pretty when I’m hurting.”

“You should not be offering this to me,” Neal says. He sounds angry, and Clint suddenly wishes he’d done this in person. He can’t read Neal, can’t tell what it is that he’s doing that’s pissing Neal off.

“Then should I offer it just to Coulson?” He asks. Neal’s always tried to help teach Clint, to make things easier for him. “Is that how this works?”

“No,” Neal snaps, “you do nothing of the kind. Until further notice, I want you to do nothing. I don’t want you to offer yourself, or your services, to anyone. If your new team tries to take advantage of you, don’t let them.”

“You saved me first,” Clint says, feeling almost sick with relief that finally, _finally_ , he understands what’s going on. “My loyalty is to you.”

There’s a long pause before Neal says, “I know.” Neal makes him promise again, then tells him to try and get a good night’s sleep before he hangs up. 

Clint likes the easy orders. He can make himself sleep, even if he knows that it’s just going to bring nightmares.

He doesn’t know what Neal’s got planned that’s going to need Clint well-rested.

*

Coulson helps move Clint into the Tower and promptly steals Natasha from them and goes on a mission alone with her. Clint spends the better part of the first two days in his new digs finding every single one of the hidey-holes Tony has built into the space for him, and using the range Tony created just for him, taking up a quarter of the floor. On the third day, someone rings the bell to the entrance for his floor. Clint doesn’t doubt for a moment that whoever it is can get in without essentially asking permission. He appreciates being given the choice, at least on the surface.

“JARVIS?”

“Agent Barton?”

“Uh, how do I answer the door?”

“Allow me, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Steve and Tony step out of the elevator and Clint reminds himself that he’s not supposed to offer anything, that it doesn’t matter how stripped naked he feels with Coulson having taken off, made the split final and obvious. Clint thinks of Neal and it steadies him. Neal knows what he’s doing, he does. He says, “Hi.”

Tony grins and spreads his hands. “So?”

Clint tells him sincerely, “It’s the coolest place I’ve ever been.”

“Worth a favor?” Tony tilts his head and Clint’s breath catches.

There’s a moment of silence and it’s Steve who says, “Honestly, Clint, we need your help. Tony’s just— the floor is yours, you don’t have to say yes.”

Neal said he wasn’t allowed to _offer_ , but he hadn’t mentioned what to do if asked. Clint says, “All—all right.”

Tony considers him for a second and it’s disconcerting. Tony’s nowhere near as scary as Natasha in that way, but he comes close to Neal. All he says, though, is, “Great. C’mon, it’s a floor up.”

Clint follows and finds himself stepping into what Coulson’s apartment would be if it were three times the size and had about six times the personalization in it. Clint says, “Oh.”

“Now that both you and Natasha are here, he almost has no choice,” Tony says confidently. “Really, it’s only a matter of time. He helped me with yours and while I certainly take credit for all the truly brilliant aspects of it, it is possible his aid played a tiny, almost miniscule role in your enjoyment of it.”

Clint’s mind is racing with the implications of that, of Coulson helping with a place for him to move away. He makes himself pay attention. “You— you’ve known him longer.”

“Until you came along, Natasha was of the opinion nobody knew him,” Steve says.

Clint isn’t sure what he really knows that anyone else doesn’t, and if he should even share that information. He settles for, “I think if I weren’t in his guest room he’d like a library, something that seems classic but functions with the speed and efficiency of a computer.”

Tony’s already walking off, muttering to himself. Clint hopes he hasn’t crossed a line he couldn’t see. Steve, from behind him, says, “We’re glad to have you here.”

Clint doesn’t understand, not when he hasn’t done anything to make them glad, not when their “favors” are actually just questions, just the need for something Clint knows that someone else might not. He smiles, though, and isn’t lying, not completely, when he says, “Glad to be here.”

*

When Phil and Natasha come back, they come back tired. There aren’t any marks on them Clint can see, but they look like they’ve been through the wringer. Coulson’s tired enough that he asks Clint to drive him home, and, when Clint asks for clarification, Coulson directs them to his old house.

Clint carries Phil’s bag inside and starts making tea. Coulson takes his jacket off, but stays in his suit. “Neal called me,” Coulson says, “before I left.” Clint freezes. “He’s coming over soon so that we can talk to you together.

“Coulson—sir—please,” Clint says, going down on his knees, showing his submission in a way he’s never had to with Coulson before. “I know I shouldn’t have talked to him, it was a mistake, but I won’t…I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

“But anything I did want, you would do. Isn’t that right?”

He wants to kiss Coulson’s shoes. He wants to strip naked and offer his body for use as a footstool, he wants to wrap Coulson’s hands around his neck and not breathe unless allowed to. He wants Coulson to keep him, and those are the things he knows he can trade.

But Clint can’t bring himself to disobey Neal. Maybe Coulson would keep it a secret, maybe Coulson’s an exception to Neal’s rule; Coulson does have the most power to hurt Clint now. Clint’s hands are twitching where he’s stretched them out beside him on the ground. Coulson crouches down beside him and runs his hand through Clint’s hair. Clint’s breath catches in his throat.

“Never mind,” Coulson says. “Just wait for Neal; we’re going to sort everything out. Make things a bit better for you.” Clint nods. Neal and Coulson are smart, they’re planners, they see the big pictures in ways Clint doesn’t understand. It’s good that they’re going to take charge. “Do you think you can get up now?”

“I can,” Clint whispers.

Coulson’s hand goes still. “Would you prefer to stay where you are?”

After a moment, Clint nods, and rests his forehead against the ground. Coulson stays beside him, crouched in an uncomfortable position, until Neal arrives.

Neal gently orders Clint to sit on the couch and finishes making the tea. All three cups sit on the coffee table untouched, steam rising off of them.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve talked about our arrangement,” Neal says. “And obviously we need to rearrange some things.” Clint nods. He’s somehow managed to royally fuck things up without Neal’s guidance. “I have a new assignment for you.” For a second, Clint flashes back to prison. To Neal, when he’d still been practically a stranger, telling Clint what to do. “You and Coulson are moving into permanent quarters at the Avengers Tower.” Coulson’s shaking his head ruefully, but he doesn’t look surprised; the two of them must have talked all of this out beforehand. “You know Coulson didn’t want to move into the tower, right?” Coulson had wanted to keep his life and work separate. Taking one misplaced orphan into his guest room isn’t the same as moving into the madhouse.

“I know,” Clint says. “I’m sorry, I should have said no to Tony, I screwed it all up—”

“I’m moving in because the team needs a handler,” Coulson says. “I’ve put it off for as long as I can. The fact that you’re already there is an added incentive.”

“But it’s not going to be easy for him,” Neal says. “You know how busy he is, how stressful his work is.”

“Yes, but he…” Clint tries to quiet his voice, to make it soft and inoffensive the way Neal can. “He hasn’t been using me to relieve his stress.”

“We’re going to change that,” Neal says. Even though Clint’s been expecting that, been expecting it for _months_ , it still hits him like a slap in the face. His safety slipping out of his hands. “You’ve been doing brilliantly,” Neal says. Clint shifts uneasily in his seat. “So you’re ready to serve the function we’ve had in mind for you. Instead of Coulson being your protector—I want you to protect Coulson.”

“I…what?”

“Protect him. Make sure he eats and sleeps, try to be with him when he’s around the others. You’re in control of Coulson, the same way I was in control of you. The same way,” Neal says, his face going cold, “that Gretchenko was in control of you.”

“But I don’t want to hurt him,” Clint says, feeling sick. Gretchenko had made Clint hurt people. Had made him fuck them.

“Then don’t. He’ll do whatever you want. If you don’t want him hurt, then don’t hurt him.”

“What about the rest of the team? Who do I…who do I need to keep happy?”

“You are under no obligation to do anything for the team except work with them in the field,” Coulson says.

“Clint, you don’t do anything that you don’t want to do,” Neal says. “These are a lot of new rules—” Which is a hilarious understatement, this is like an entirely new world— “so, to make sure we’re clear on this: I don’t want you to have sex with anyone until I say otherwise.”

“What about if they just want to hurt me?” He looks back and forth between the two men. “I understand the rule about the fucking,” even though he doesn’t understand why it’s there, “but what if they…need a different kind of entertainment?” They both look unhappy with his question. Maybe the answer was supposed to be obvious, one of those things that everybody—except Clint—seems to instinctively know. “I’m not complaining,” he adds, “I just…I want to do this right.”

“No hurting,” Neal says quietly. “No sex, no pain. If you have any questions about the rules, you call me.”

“I protect Coulson,” Clint says. It sounds absurd when he says it out loud, but Coulson’s smiling at him, a tired smile that barely exists at the edges.

“Yes,” Neal says.

“Do you think you can do that?” Coulson asks.

Coulson has taken care of Clint for over a year. Has fed him, has talked to him, has sat at his bedside and explained _Jersey Shore_ to him. Clint will do anything for Coulson.

“I’ll do my best.”

*

They spend that night at Coulson’s apartment. They’ll move Coulson in the morning. Clint goes to his old bed and tries to rest, but when it becomes clear that sleep is never going to happen, he sits in the hall outside Coulson’s room and thinks. Before he’d turned his light off, Clint had noticed that Neal had sent him a link. The link went to the Merriam-Webster definition of “to protect.” Neal wrote: “You know how sometimes we saw completely different things in the same book? Make this word your own.”

Clint curls up against Coulson’s door and drifts back to when he first went to prison, those first couple of years, when he still actively wanted a protector, believed it could happen. He hadn’t wanted Gretchenko. No, when he’d considered his options it had always been one of the Muslims or something of the sort, someone who would just leave him alone.

But now that seems like a small role for a protector. Having experienced Neal and Coulson, Clint tries to imagine what he would want if he could have anything from a protector, anything he desired. _That’s_ the protector he wants to be for Coulson.

It takes a while, but Clint starts a list, not necessarily in order, numbered and in Coulson’s neat handwriting in his mind, not his own scribbles. He doesn’t really think he needs to worry about Coulson having a bed, because, well, Tony, but he puts it on the list. His _own_ bed, where nobody else is allowed. For that matter, his own space, where he can go if he needs to get away. Clint puts an asterisk by that one and notes, _make sure he has time to himself_ , because what good is a space without time to hide in it?

Clint remembers how Neal specifically mentioned making sure Coulson ate, which Clint agrees is a good idea, because sometimes he gets lost in his job, or worried about one of them, whatever, and just doesn’t get around to it. He’ll have to make sure Coulson gets enough sleep, too. He doesn’t seem to need as much as other people, but all the same, Clint needs to watch, make sure it’s happening.

Those are the easy things, obvious. Clint tucks his knees even more tightly to his chest and forces himself to poke at places he’s left alone in himself for so, so long. Because what he wants, what he _really_ wants, is to give Coulson everything he’s ever wanted to ask for and never been willing or able to. 

He wants Coulson to know he can come to Clint after a rough day and have someone to talk to, someone who will listen. He wants to do small things so Coulson knows someone is thinking of him, things like buy Coulson’s favorite candy at random moments, so it remains a surprise, or fix up his office to be more ergonomic.

He wants to make Coulson laugh. He wants Coulson to know if he needs a hug, or a shoulder squeeze, or to lay his head down on someone’s thigh, that Clint can do all those things for him, and not take anything. He wants...he wants to be everything good. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even know where to start, really.

Just to give himself somewhere, he makes another mental list, this one of all the small things Coulson has done over their time together that have made Clint feel valued and special, if uncertain. He has a sneaking suspicion Coulson might escape feeling that last. Mind made up, Clint goes and grabs the tablet. He searches the web for the diner he knows Coulson loves, the one four blocks over. It opens at four am. Clint grins. He knows he’ll probably fuck this up enormously given a few hours, but he’s starting his new job with a gift of breakfast in bed. Even if it goes wrong, he’ll have made sure Coulson eats. Two birds, one arrow.

*

His new uniform’s made out of some dark material that looks like leather. It’s the same type as Natasha’s, which means Clint will be able to move and hide and fight with the same flexibility she can, but if anyone takes a picture of him while fighting, they’ll know he’s not just the standard SHIELD backup. The suit fits him like a glove, with pockets and reinforcements in all the right places. Steve tells him Coulson works on all of their uniform designs, which just makes Clint love it even more.

The first call that comes in for all of them, Clint included, is on a Tuesday afternoon. Clint’s overfull from eating a big lunch with Thor, and he’d been about to settle in for a nap. He pulls on his uniform as fast as he can, but Natasha comes into his room before he’s done—which he _hates_ , because this is his space, and he doesn’t like that she can do that, even if it’s only after an alarm has been sounded—and helps him get ready.

“This is not going to be easy,” she says, zipping up his left boot while he gets the right. “If you need anything, we are all here for you.” That’s all she says to him until the battle starts.

It matters now, it matters that he’s good in a way it never has before. If he fails here, the cost won’t just be in personal pain—other people will suffer. Some little voice in the back of his head is just screaming, but his adrenaline’s evened out enough that he knows he’ll be able to shoot straight.

They’re in the city, but some part of it Clint doesn’t recognize. The houses are smaller, there are almost no businesses. It’s a residential area being overrun by what looks like a pack of giant white lizards. Each one is about the size of a horse, with long scythe-like claws and powerful hind legs.

The SHIELD pilot drops the rest of the team off first, Steve hollering orders in his Captain America voice. Tony’s on the comms too, with the tinny echo that means he’s in his suit.

Clint’s dropped off last. The best site available for him is on top of a fucking water tower. There’s plenty of handholds and some railings, but the surface is slick and wickedly curved. He points himself towards the fighting, hooks a foot in the railing, and leans off the side to start taking his shots.

He hasn’t shot at a live being since before he went to prison, and then it had only been once, to wound. He swallows the instinctive revulsion and starts targeting moving, living, breathing creatures. He strikes one through the eye on the first shot. The explosive arrows work beautifully, just the way Tony said they would. It’s different to see and hear the explosions when they’re not just in the vacuum of Tony’s workshop.

Clint gets into a rhythm quickly, killing a creature threatening a SHIELD agent and then another one trying to break into a building, a third overturning a car. After that he only keeps track by the countdown he keeps of which arrows he has left.

He runs out of explosive arrowheads long before the battle’s over. The electric bolts work for a bit, but then the creatures just shake it off. He’s about to just write that strategy off completely, but then remembers he’s working with a team.

He tabs on his comm. “Captain?”

Steve’s voice is strained. Clint can catch glimpses of his blue uniform moving on street-level, but it’s mostly obscured by smoke. “Hawkeye? What is it?”

“I can incapacitate the creatures for about thirty seconds, but I’m out of any arrows that will finish the job.”

“Thor, are you free to join Hawkeye’s position?”

“Aye!” Less than a minute later Mjolnir and Thor slam down on the water tower next to Clint, leaving a dent in the metal. “Tell me where to go,” Thor says, “and I shall pound them into dirt.”

“Cool. Uh, how ‘bout there?” He points at a streetcorner, then draws an arrow. “Ready?”

Thor starts swinging Mjolnir. Clint shoots, and Thor jumps after his arrow. It’s like playing tag, after that. Clint tags the creatures as fast as he can and Thor follows the sparks of electricity, lightning flaring up around him, and brings Mjolnir down over and over and over again. Clint’s almost out of those arrows when something explodes down where Captain America and Iron Man had been fighting. A percussive blast follows that makes the tower shake.

And it’s over. Thor and Hulk chase down the last stragglers, but no new threats make themselves known.

Clint waits on the tower for someone to come get him. He’s pretty sure they’ll remember him, pretty sure they’ll still want to collect him and bring him home. He doesn’t know how well he’s supposed to have done—he’s never worked with a team before, and no one’s told him how well the snipers before him had done—but if they’d replaced so many, the bar must be pretty high.

Clint loses a bit of time after that. By the time Coulson reaches the tower to bring him in, Clint’s crouched against a railing, his whole body shaking.

“Hey,” Clint says, realizing he’s still holding his bow in front of him. He puts it to the side quickly so Coulson won’t think Clint is aiming at him. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Coulson says. He looks fine—his suit’s neat and in place, he’s walking steadily, no sign of any injuries. “How about you?” 

Clint feels empty. He feels blank. “I don’t know.”

“You did well,” Coulson says, resting a hand on Clint’s shoulder and bending down to be on eye-level with him. “Are you hurt?” Clint shakes his head. “Do you need more time?”

Clint stares at the gravel that covers the rooftop. “I just fought,” he says dumbly.

“Yes,” Coulson says. “You did.”

“I killed,” he says, “I killed a lot of them.”

“Yes, you did,” Coulson says again. “And now you can stand down.” Coulson says, pulling Clint in for a hug that feels too tight and close. Coulson doesn’t let him go when he struggles. Coulson holds on to Clint, whispering something Clint can’t hear over the sound of his own rasping breath.

Natasha intentionally stomps her foot on the tower to alert them both that she’s coming. She smiles at Clint and says something in Russian he doesn’t understand. It’s probably too kind, or at least polite, for Gretchenko to have bothered teaching him. She switches to English. “It’s time to come in. Agent Terrell sends her thanks. You took down a creature that was about to finish her off. Because of you, her wounds are superficial, not life-threatening.”

“Fuck,” Clint says breathlessly, finally releasing his white-knuckled grip on his bow. “This is…”

“Amazing and terrifying,” Natasha says, as if it’s a lesson she learned a long time ago.

Coulson pulls Clint up to standing. “The rest of the team is waiting.” For the first time, Clint feels like the word _team_ fits him. Natasha picks up his quiver and Coulson wraps an arm around Clint’s waist and they walk off the tower together.

*

The first real move Clint makes as Coulson’s protector is, in some ways, his riskiest. Bringing Coulson food when he’s caught up in work, or badgering him into sleeping doesn’t really count in Clint’s mind. Those were actually in the job description. The choice he makes a month in has nothing to do with what Neal told him, and everything to do with the protector _Clint_ wants to be. It feels like breaking a rule and seeing if he gets punished. He doesn’t think Neal will pull him off Coulson, probably just find a way to re-educate Clint. Neal has always been into educating Clint.

He makes his move on a Thursday afternoon of what has been a very long week. There was a call at o’dark thirty on Sunday, which the team couldn’t resolve until mid-day, and then another, lesser threat on Wednesday, just as they were rolling into bed. Coulson has been dealing with the clean up, as he always does, making sure everyone’s paperwork gets filed, even if he has to do it himself. Clint tries to help him as much as he can, but paperwork is not his strength, and he knows his help in that area doesn’t count for much.

He picks up his present for Coulson Thursday afternoon, and uses the key he has to Coulson’s floor to let himself in. Coulson is still at SHIELD, doing what feels like his tenth debrief on the Sunday situation. It seems to have caught SHIELD by more surprise than they’re generally fans of.

Clint settles into the library, which is everything he could have imagined and more, including a wooden spiral staircase with bookshelves for every step. He knows it’s Coulson’s favorite part of the floor, which makes Clint glad he spoke up. Sitting in the room, reminding himself of that helps keep him calm, or at least, calmer, about what he’s attempting.

Coulson returns just as dusk is setting. Clint hears him slot his key into the space by the door. After a second, he calls, “Clint?”

“Library.”

Coulson comes in, looking immaculate but tense and stops at the doorway. He looks at Clint for a long moment and asks, “Did you get yourself a kitten?”

Clint is cautious not to let his hands tighten around the little bundle of tortoiseshell fur he’s holding. “I— I got you a cat, sir.”

Coulson comes into the room and takes the chair nearest to where Clint is sitting. Finally, he asks, “Mind telling me what’s going on in your head?”

Mostly panic, but Clint’s pretty sure that isn’t what he’s asking. “You, I mean, sometimes you talk about the cat you had as a kid, like you really miss having one. You sound _happy_ when you talk about her. And before, in the apartment, it was impossible, because our jobs and everything, but here, I mean, Tony has plenty of people who can help. 

“I thought it might be something good about moving here. Something you’d like.”

Clint goes silent after that, not allowing himself to curl up, but unable to stop the manic stroking of the cat’s fur his hands have fallen into.

After a second, Coulson very gently takes the kitten away, leaving Clint’s hands flexing uselessly. He sits on them. Coulson turns the kitten so she’s facing him and says, “Well. Hello there, pretty girl.”

She bats at his nose, but doesn’t have the reach for it. Coulson rubs her belly and she gives an unsure meow. Coulson smiles in a way Clint has never seen, sort of soft, maybe a little bit playful. He looks up at Clint without getting rid of the smile. “Did you get toys for her? Do we have food? A litterbox? Does she have a name?”

Clint shakes his head, trying to hide his excitement. “No name. She’s yours, you should get to do that. The rest of the stuff the people at the shelter helped me with. Although Tony is deeply offended by the basic nature of the self-cleaning litter box and intends to do a thorough rehaul on it. Just warning.”

“Remind me to be out of the tower that day.”

“You and me both,” Clint agrees. Then, “So...you’ll keep her?”

And even though Clint had known there was a lot riding on this move, that this would shape how things progressed, and that, more simply, he just wanted Coulson to like his present, it’s not until Coulson lifts the kitten and puts her nose to his to say, “Oh yeah, we’re keeping you,” Clint realizes that beyond the reward of having executed his role correctly, there is the sheer pleasure of having made Coulson smile, of having knowledge and using it properly. He wonders if this is how Neal feels all the time. It’s incredible.

Clint knows he has the stupidest grin ever on his face when he asks, “Well, sir? What’re we going to call her?

He doesn’t care.

*

Clint likes buying dinner for Coulson—Tony has take-out menus from pretty much every good restaurant in the city, even ones that aren’t supposed to deliver—but he feels uncomfortable charging it to the team account, even though that’s what Tony had told him to do.

He decides to try making dinners instead, to save money. The internet has instructions for everything, including risotto, so that’s what he tries first. Tony comes into the kitchen halfway through, tastes a bit of what Clint’s got stirring, declares that it needs another bay leaf, and disappears. Bruce comes in a few minutes later, looking perplexed and carrying a bottle of wine. 

“Tony sent me,” Bruce says, looking around. “Is this a trap? Is a bucket of water going to fall on my head?” 

“Not that I know of. But, uh, I could use some help? Maybe?”

“Sure!” Bruce says, setting the wine down on the counter. Clint likes when Bruce smiles. 

“Do you know where bay leaves are? Or, for that matter, _what_ they are?” Bruce shows Clint around the kitchen, and gives him advice in a way that makes Clint feel smarter afterward, instead of how he usually feels. “Coulson doesn’t like things that are too spicy,” Clint says, when Bruce starts contemplating red pepper flakes. 

“Oh—this is for Coulson?” 

“Yeah, but you can have some. I made extra on purpose.” 

“No,” Bruce says, putting Tony’s bottle of wine in the fridge to chill, hiding his face from Clint. “I’ll leave the two of you alone.” 

“We’re not...you don’t have to,” Clint says, because he actually likes having Bruce around. “Coulson’s just been working extra hard lately. He probably skipped lunch today.” 

“That’s really sweet,” Bruce says, putting away the red pepper flakes. “Make sure you open that bottle a few minutes before you pour it, okay? And, uh—do you want me to find some candles?” 

“What for?” 

“They help set the mood,” Bruce says. 

Clint’s not sure what mood they’re going to set, but he likes candles. They’d used them in the circus. The van he and Barney had slept in for a while had always smelled like smoke; the floor had been covered with splashes of wax. 

Clint finishes cooking before Coulson gets home. He sets the table, lights the candles, and opens the bottle of wine. Then he waits for what feels like forever. He tastes the risotto a couple of times, and it’s not great, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He has a glass of wine. Tony’s educating his palate, but all he can tell is that it’s fruity, and makes him lightheaded. 

Coulson loves the dinner. He drinks two glasses of wine, has two helpings of the risotto, and eats more of the garlic bread than Clint does. Clint’s favorite part of the night is that Coulson stays a bit slumped in his chair, resting his head on his hands and looking sleepy. Clint likes that Coulson doesn’t pretend around him. 

Coulson says thanks enough times that Clint blushes. They do the dishes together. There’s a moment, right before Clint blows the candles out, when he looks at Coulson—tired and disheveled and relaxed—and feels like he’s looking at him for the first time.

*

After that first time, when Tony and Bruce helped with Clint’s attempt at dinner, the rest of the Avengers decide to chip in, too. Clint appreciates it, since he’s never tried to take care of anyone before, and most of the rest of them have.

Pepper makes the appointments for them to take Tigger to the vet’s office. Tony tells them to use one of his cars for the weekend (he claims it needs a test drive, but once they get out of the city and put the top down—once Coulson starts laughing and singing along with the radio—Clint figures it out). 

Steve doesn’t help in the way the others do. He doesn’t give Clint any gifts to pass on to Coulson, doesn’t arrange for activities for them to do. He just asks Clint to come to coffee once or twice a week. He never asks Clint for anything more than his time and platonic company, so after the first few meetings, Clint relaxes. 

Steve talks about art and the war and what it’s like for your life to become other people’s history. Clint, haltingly, talks about Barney and the circus and Coulson. Steve’s got about as much relationship experience as Clint—which is to say, not much—but he listens, and he helps Clint brainstorm, and he doesn’t...he doesn’t treat it like it’s something silly or juvenile the way some of the others do. 

Thor’s the one who clues Clint in to the fact that he’s taking care of Coulson wrong. He asks Clint if he wants to come along with Thor and Jane to a planetarium show. “We had very little in common when we first started courting,” Thor says, folding and unfolding his trifold pamphlet with an air of bemusement. “Much like you and your beloved. Jane agrees that your plan of seduction is a thoughtful one. She thinks it likely to succeed, and I would help in any way I can.” He frowns at Clint. “I believe it is called a double date.” 

Clint mumbles an apology, saying he can’t make it, and runs out of the room. He doesn’t even realize where he’s going, but he ends up in Coulson’s study, Tigger poking curiously at him with her nose. 

Once he’s caught his breath, he starts to put things together in a way he hadn’t before. Coulson doesn’t need Clint to take care of him. Clint’s known that all along. And if Coulson _did_ need someone, he could have picked anyone who worked at SHIELD, someone who would know what he was doing. 

Clint climbs through the vents from Coulson’s office to his own room. He dresses in a nondescript outfit Tony bought him, and climbs out his window to get out of the tower. He’s never left like this before. His body is thrumming with the thrill of his disobedience, but the rage burning through him won’t let him stop. 

He takes the subway, bracing himself against the noise and crowd and smell. His anger makes it easier to bear. He walks from the station to Neal’s house. He’s only been here once before, but he remembers the way. Remembers the long staircase and the way June had been so kind to him. 

He climbs up the outside wall and breaks into Neal’s apartment from the porch. 

Neal comes home a bit after 11pm. Clint is sitting at his dining room table, waiting for him. 

“Clint—what are you doing here?” Neal’s smile is big but troubled. “Is everything okay?” 

“No,” Clint says hoarsely. “It’s not okay.” 

“What happened?” Neal comes towards him too quickly, too close. Clint twists out of his seat and moves to keep the table between them. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

Neal stops and holds his hands in the air, pretending innocence. “Okay. I won’t; I’ll stay right here. Tell me what’s going on.” 

“Did you plan this?”

“Plan what?” 

“Plan me—me and Coulson. Getting me _involved_ , making me care, making me grovel for him like a dog. At least with Gretchenko, I knew what I was doing.” 

“What? No, I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I made him dinner,” Clint says, the words spilling out of him like oil, dark and slick. “I touched him, and I made him laugh, and I made sure he was always happy. You made me do that.” 

“I didn’t make you,” Neal insists, going pale. “I’d hoped you’d _want_ to do those things.” 

“You tricked me. Tell me the truth,” Clint whispers. “When you made this new deal, were you trying to get me to fall in—” The thought sticks in his brain. It doesn’t make sense, but he’s got no other words for it, and fuck Neal anyway. “Trying to get me to fall in love with him?”

“No,” Neal says. Clint looks him over. He’s known Neal for years now. He knows Neal better than he knows almost anybody else. And maybe he doesn’t know Neal at all. 

“You’re lying.” 

“No, I’m not—look, you’re both my friends, and even _Peter_ could see that you had chemistry. We wanted to come up with some way to keep you from being hurt. This seemed like the best option.” 

Peter, and Neal, and Coulson. And probably Tony and Bruce and fucking Steve. They were all in this together. Clint’s never felt so betrayed before. “Stop trying to help me. I never asked for it, except for—for when I had to. When I was starving,” Clint says, even though that’s a low point in his life that he’s tried to forget, smothering the memories with big meals with Coulson and small stashes of food hidden around the Avengers Tower. “I’m not going to listen to you anymore. I’m not going to do what you want.” 

The silence stretches between them. Clint waits for something to strike him. Maybe lightning, maybe Neal’s hand, maybe Gretchenko reaching for him from behind bars. He waits for the punishment he knows will come on the heels of his disobedience, but nothing happens. 

“I’m done,” Clint says. “I don’t need you anymore. And I don’t want you. You can tell Coulson that, too.” 

He leaves the way he came in. It’s colder outside and the walk back to the station seems longer. There are more people gathered around the entrance to the subway, sitting on the grates for warmth, holding out empty cups. 

The way Clint sees it, he’s got two options left. One, go back to the tower and hope they’ll let him stay and work. Two, sit down on the corner and start collecting pennies. He’s worked hard for his spot on the team. He has served them with every ounce of strength in himself; more strength than he’d ever thought he had. 

He gets on the subway.

*

Upon getting back to the tower, Clint changes all the keycodes to his floor the way Tony showed him. He knows Tony can figure it out, hell, JARVIS can probably just tell him, but it makes Clint feel better. He tucks himself into his favorite space on the floor and does not cry. He’s lost nothing, _nothing_ he hadn’t already lost.

He spends days wandering the city. He walks the length of Central Park, climbing its castle and looking as far as he can see, much further, he knows, than most people. He doesn’t go to the zoo, uncomfortable with the cages, no matter how well or badly hidden. He sits on a bench by himself and eats vendor ice cream.

He goes up to Spanish Harlem, listens and watches and mostly eats. Mexican food is still comforting, no matter what Neal and Peter have done. 

He whiles away time at the Cloisters, reveling in the way silence resounds off the walls, at the view from the back terrace. One night, he takes himself to a Broadway show, because he has a salary and he’s never been before. He finds himself unironically loving the sheer spectacle of it, bright and loud and in no way connected to anything else he knows.

Clint keeps his phone on him, setting it at vibrate and placing it in pockets where it will startle him if it goes off. He’s available for work. Otherwise, he screens his calls. Natasha calls and leaves the message, “Call me,” but he does not, anymore than he calls any of the others back. They’re not his team; they’re Coulson’s. Clint can appreciate that he was an idiot to believe otherwise.

By the end of the first week, exploring on his own hasn’t gotten boring, if anything, each day brings something new. He hasn’t even gotten to the New York Public Library yet. But it has gotten lonely.

This surprises Clint, mostly because he can’t remember a time when he wasn’t yearning to have some time, maybe a little space, to himself. It’s been better since his release, but even so, he’s always been someone’s, except for his time on the streets, and he had to share the alleys with every other indigent.

The fact remains, cooking for himself just isn’t as much fun as cooking for someone else. Seeing something he finds cool isn’t quite as awesome when he can’t turn to a friend and get excited about it, or wait until later and tell someone else who will understand. Clint’s not admitting defeat, not by a long shot, but it occurs to him that it is possible he misses the team. It’s just that he’s been part of them, really, for a while now, and it’s an adjustment. But Clint is good at adjustments, and even better at surviving. This will pass, he knows, and he’ll be just fine.

*

Clint is a professional during missions. He understands that he was hired for a skill set and he owes SHIELD the return of said skill set. He does as told and he does it well, and when everything is done, the world made safe once again, he hies his way back to his floor or sometimes, after a shower, finds a spot in the city where he can sit for hours and does so.

He considers getting himself a dog. He’s seen Tigger out and about a few times, and she’s grown so big in the weeks since he’s cut himself off from everything. Clint’s all right with admitting he misses her, but thinks it might be a bit pathetic to get another cat. A dog, though, that’s a decent compromise. For some reason he can’t explain to himself, however, he does not go to the shelter.

The entire team, minus Coulson, has begun more actively trying to seek him out, waiting for him near the entrance that makes the most sense to get to his floor, leaving notes on his door, upping the number of calls and texts, but Clint isn’t going to trust again, not this time. He’s learned that lesson the hard way, once, twice, a million times, and he’s done. He brutally ignores the part of himself that wonders why Coulson hasn’t even tried, if all he is really is just a good shot, someone Coulson thought he could have with ease.

The team gets called in to deal with a group of what seriously makes Clint think of nothing so much as acutely pissed off howler monkeys with acid-shooting glands in their mouths. They’re in the business district in the middle of broad fucking daylight and unlike usual, Coulson is on the ground with Steve, trying to evac as many people as possible.

Clint denies that the clench of stomach muscles he can’t seem to relax has anything to do with the fact that Coulson is exposed, out there. He forces himself into his sniper mindset, making everything but the problem at hand go away.

It works. Clint actually makes a shot that surprises him and has Hulk making happy noises. Clint can’t be mad at the Hulk. It’s a) pointless and b) kind of stupid, since the Hulk doesn’t make any of Bruce’s decisions. He grins over at him for a moment before getting back to business.

Everything is going well until Coulson makes a noise over the comms: a startled noise. Clint knows it’s the equivalent of anyone else swearing, or possibly biting off a cry. The need to be able to see Coulson—he’s never lost him before, never needed to keep track, Coulson wasn’t usually out there, but still, he’s _never_ lost the agent—distracts Clint for long enough that one of the Not Monkeys catches him in the side with its claws. Clint’s shot it dead before it even has time to open its mouth and he’s speared the one following it straight through with his bow before it can touch him.

He straightens up, positions himself again, but his side burns fiercely, far worse than it should from a few scratches. He doesn’t risk taking his eyes off the fighting again to check. By the time the team has pretty much demolished their foes, as well as the better part of six city blocks, Clint’s only standing by way of being too fucking stubborn to go to his knees.

Once he gets the signal to stand down, the most potent of the adrenaline pours out of him and he doesn’t even remember sinking to the ground, but he blinks, and he’s definitely sitting. There’s noise in his ear and it’s bothering him. He fumbles around and pulls out the thing making the noise. He collapses onto his back and closes his eyes. He’s very tired.

*

Clint wakes up in SHIELD’s medical wing, too intimately familiar for him not to recognize it at first glance. He doesn’t expect anyone to be there—after all, it’s not as if he’s been endearing himself to the team—but when he struggles to sit up, a Coulson who looks as though he hasn’t slept in a month snaps, “Don’t. You’ll tear the stitches and possibly reactivate the poison.”

Clint stills, but says, for the record, “Have a doctor tell me. You don’t get to tell me what to do and not to do.”

Coulson opens his mouth, but after a second he nods, and goes to get a doctor. The doctor thoroughly explains that the Not Monkeys’ claws were chock full of filth and toxins, all of which mixed up in his bloodstream. He’s been unconscious for the better part of four days, and they weren’t sure he was going to make it the first two and a half. Clint thanks the doctor for the update, and for working so hard to fix him. The doctor eyes him oddly at that, but just says, “You’re welcome, ring if you need something,” and leaves the two of them alone.

“Clint,” Coulson says softly.

“You can go now,” Clint tells him, not, for a second, listening to the treacherous voice in his head which tells him that is the last thing he wants. 

“No,” Coulson says. “I’m not—”

“I don’t want you here. Or does that not matter? Are we finally being honest about what my position is?”

Coulson’s jaw clenches for a moment before he breathes out and says evenly, “I’m going to say my piece, and you are going to listen, and if you still want me to leave, I will walk out that door, resign as the team’s handler and you will never see me again. Deal?”

It’s not a deal, it’s not anything Clint wants, not really, but he knows Coulson’s right, this is the best way. Clint will stop feeling this way eventually. He nods.

Coulson nods once, sharply, and sucks in a breath. After a moment of deliberation, he says, “I listened to Neal when he called me and said to give you time, I listened, because usually Neal is so good at figuring people out and he knows you better than most. But I’m done listening to him, because I found you on a rooftop with gashes in your side that were turning black and you’d taken your comm out and I can’t even begin to describe how scared I was, how...desperate.” 

“I can’t imagine it’d be easy to train another sniper,” Clint acknowledges. “And SHIELD put a lot of resources into me.”

Coulson walks to the opposite side of the room deliberately, then turns back and says, “Shut up, Clint. Just—I’m _sorry_ , all right? I’m sorry I agreed to Neal’s plan to let you have your way. I thought—I thought that way, if you weren’t interested, it would be obvious, and I wouldn’t pressure you, no harm no foul, we’d be friends. I was willing to accept that. 

“But this, what you’re doing? Acting as though I never wanted anything but a willing sex partner? You can honestly go fuck yourself. Because I recruited you to SHIELD for your skills and for your loyalty and the fact that you presented a picture of someone off-the-beaten-path enough to handle the rest of the team. I didn’t know a damn thing about you thinking this was something else, something different.”

Clint actually knows this is not the point of all that, but, “I’ve never heard you swear.”

“Few things matter enough for me to bother,” Coulson tells him flatly.

Slowly, Clint says, “You research your recruits, you—you don’t leave things to chance.”

“Well, you were kind of a surprise, first off. You were a dusty file until Peter’s call, I had a few hours to pull together the rest. And I knew you’d been badly treated in prison, that was clear, but I—it wasn’t until much, much later that I realized your world view was completely warped by the experience. 

“And by then I’d already started to be interested in the person you were when you weren’t hiding, the guy who likes coffee table books on birds and learning about historical warfare. The guy who might flinch at things that scare him, but doesn’t back away for a second. The guy with a smile like a mystery and a laugh even more slippery. I was into _you_ and it was so, so clear that I shouldn’t be, wasn’t really allowed. 

“So when Neal came to me and told me what you thought, I—I wanted to give you over to someone else, Hill, maybe, but Neal thought what we tried would give you a chance to make a choice. We didn’t—neither of us ever thought you’d essentially view it as an emotional rape. I swear, Clint. We wouldn’t have hurt you like that, not for anything.”

Clint doesn’t want to believe. So far believing hasn’t gotten him very far in his life. He doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to be drawn in. He wants it so much. More than he can ever remember wanting anything, even Barney to visit him in prison. He asks, “How long have you been sitting here?”

Coulson’s expression shifts ever so slightly into exasperation. Clint knows very few people would be able to see it. Coulson tells him, “Four days. Of course.”

Of course. There’s nothing of course about it, Clint knows, but he’s starting to think there might be for Coulson. He says, “This scares me. Scares me enough to make me back away.”

Coulson rubs a hand over his face and nods. His smile is bitter. “Don’t want to scare you.” He moves toward the door. “I’ll send Natasha, okay? The team is freaked and it really isn’t their fault, they didn’t know anything. They just thought you were a guy flirting with another guy. They don’t understand why you’re upset, so just, let them back in, please?”

Clint swallows. It would be so easy--the hardest thing he’s ever done--to let Coulson walk out that door. Instead he says, “I’ll make it up to them later. I’d, ah, I’d like it if you were the one to stay. For now.”

Coulson looks back at him. “You’re sure?”

Clint is terrified and exhausted and not at all sure he is making the right decision. “Yes.”

*

Two days later the doctors let him return to the Tower. Natasha offers to help Clint up to his room before Coulson can, which Clint appreciates. He’s not sure how to balance wanting Coulson around without one of them being in charge of the other.

He wakes up about ten hours later, with a serious need to piss and get in the shower. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is there anyone in the Tower who isn’t doing anything important right now?”

“Agent Romanoff and Mr. Rogers are currently unoccupied. However, as Agent Coulson’s current important task is keeping watch outside your room, perhaps you would like me to summon him?”

“You can be a real smartass sometimes, JARVIS.”

“Mr. Stark blames it on Mr. Roger’s influence.”

Clint snorts, then hisses when it pulls at his stitches. “Yeah, um—can you ask Coulson if he can come in?” The door slides open quickly enough that Clint knows JARVIS hadn’t even bothered to ask. Coulson looks tired, but at least he’s wearing clean clothes. They’re casual wear. “Were you waiting outside my room like a creepy stalker?”

“Yes,” Coulson says, without any hint of shame. Clint feels unexpectedly flustered, and maybe kind of pleased.

Coulson helps him use the bathroom and get ready. Clint feels uncomfortable the whole time, now that he knows for sure Coulson wants him. There’s just no one else Clint trusts enough to let them see him like this.

Coulson sets Clint up on a couch in the main room, where he’s close to the kitchen and a bathroom. Tigger settles down on Clint’s stomach and purrs like a lawnmower. Everyone else on the team comes through, and they joke with him and say they missed him and that if he ever gets hurt like that again, they’ll kill him.

When Clint starts to feel overwhelmed, Coulson pulls out his briefcase—which always seems to be at his side, the same way Tony always magically has a drink in hand—and threatens everyone with paperwork if they stay in the room.

“Works every time,” Coulson says, after the room’s been evacuated. He pulls Clint’s StarkTab out of his briefcase instead of actual paperwork. “I thought you might like to watch something while you convalesce.”

Clint thanks him and fiddles with it for a while. He hasn’t been using it that much since his hands got better. Tony made some adjustments to Clint’s tech so Clint can turn the pages in books easily, and Clint’s been working his way through Coulson’s collection of sci-fi.

“We could watch a movie,” Clint says, hiding his face behind the tab, one of his hands curled over Tigger’s back. Coulson’s quiet for a while. If Clint could move, he’d kick himself. He just doesn’t know how he’s supposed to _like_ someone. He should have gone to Google and figured out what are appropriate maybe-liking-someone actions, and not you-can-fuck-me-if-you-want invitations. “I don’t mean porn,” Clint says. “I’m not gonna sleep with you.”

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you either, but thank you for the confirmation.” Clint peeks over the top of his tablet and Coulson smiles at him. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do,” Coulson says, like it’s something simple. “How about you pick out a movie, and I’ll make some popcorn?”

Clint picks _Anchorman_ , because he knows that Coulson is secretly a Will Ferrell fan, and Clint wants to hear Coulson laugh.

Despite Clint’s insistence that they’re not going to sleep together, he can’t help himself. He falls asleep halfway through the movie, Tigger purring away happily, and Coulson sitting on the other end of the couch, one of his hands resting on top of Clint’s ankle.

*

The day Clint gets his stitches taken out and is granted a clean bill of health, Coulson asks, “Feel like going on a date?”

He asks it casually, but he doesn’t look at Clint as he asks, which tells Clint everything he needs to know. Coulson is nervous. It makes Clint feel...he thinks what he feels is a type of power. It’s new. He never once felt it in all the time he was the one supposedly in charge. 

He can say no, he realizes. He can refuse, and nothing will happen. Coulson will drive him back to the Tower, the two of them will go about their lives, meeting up when necessary. Clint doesn’t even think Coulson would revoke his friendship or concern.

The thing is, however, he doesn’t want to say no. “Like dinner and a movie?”

Coulson hesitates just a second. “If that’s what you want.”

“You had something else in mind,” Clint reads. 

Coulson shrugs. “There’s a birding tour on weekend mornings in Bryant Park. I thought we could go to one and then grab some breakfast.”

Something in Clint’s chest tugs. It almost hurts, but not quite. Coulson doesn’t mind birds, or anything, but he’s not like Clint. He doesn’t go up to the roof of the Tower where Bruce helped Clint build a bird refuge. He doesn’t sit in the midst of the feeders and listen to them as they socialize, let them land on his head and poke into his hair. In sum, Coulson wouldn’t have gone looking for a birding tour for himself.

“That sounds...I’d like that.”

Coulson’s smile is relieved. The silence between them is comfortable as they go back to the Tower, heading separate ways once they’re there. Bruce will want to look Clint over, and Natasha has made it clear he needs to get back to sparring sooner rather than later. He’s kept busy for the rest of the day, having a casual dinner with Steve, who still is clearly a little unsure of what he did and if Clint is going to suddenly stop talking to him again. Clint feels like the biggest asshole in the world when he catches Captain America looking small and uncertain out of the corner of his eye at points.

On Saturday morning, Coulson knocks on his door at the appointed time and hands him a cup of steaming coffee, a bit of cream, no sugar. Clint smiles his thanks, and takes a sip. They grab a cab and sit next to each other in companionable silence, drinking their respective coffees.

In the park, Coulson is silent as Clint listens intently to the tour guide, occasionally brushing Clint’s arm to point to something he hasn’t seen, but largely keeping to himself. Afterward, they sit in a diner, Clint plowing through a combination of waffles and eggs and maple-smoked sausage, Coulson making easy work of an omelet while Clint talks about the birds they saw, some of them ones he’d never noticed before.

“Why do you like them so much?” Coulson asks. There’s no judgment in the question, just simple curiosity.

“Birds?” Clint asks, mostly just to have time to consider his answer. Eventually, he says, “I don’t remember much from when I was a kid, really, before the orphanage. Mostly just being afraid. But I lived in this neighborhood where rabbits and squirrels didn’t even bother to come around. Possums and raccoons were about the only wildlife we got outside of feral cats and one time, a dog with rabies. Anyway, the birds, they liked to sit on the telephone wires, able to come and go as they pleased. They were just...different, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. It was like they were the only things that didn’t belong. And sometimes robins or blue jays would come around, and that’s pretty much the only color I remember from that time.

“It was kind of the same with the orphanage and prison. They’ve just always been a symbol of something better for me. I don’t suppose it’s all that original. Lots of people think of birds as a symbol of freedom.”

“I don’t know that it’s unoriginal,” Coulson says softly.

Clint shrugs. “Swordsman wanted to call me something, I don’t remember. It had to do with Robin Hood. But I just, well, I’d seen the way hawks dove, fierce and so fast and nothing could ever catch them. They saw mice from all the way up in the sky and I thought, no, Hawkeye.”

“It suits you,” Coulson tells him, and Clint can hear that he’s being serious.

Because he doesn’t know how to respond to that, he asks, “And you? What would your code name be if you had one?”

Coulson laughs, quick but resonant. “I tremble to even consider it.”

*

Despite the Avengers’ varied and impressive skill sets, when Clint decides he might need some relationship advice, he’s not sure where to turn. Thor apparently once brought a large dead animal home to Jane. Natasha, as far as Clint can see, has no romantic interest in anyone. Anyway, she’s friends with Coulson, and Clint doesn’t want to get in the way of that. Tony’s out of the question for so, so many reasons, and every time Bruce mentions Betty, he gets all sad, which is honestly worse than when he gets angry.

So Clint asks Steve out for a platonic cup of coffee. 

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says, leaning over the coffee table. Steve’s a big guy, and Clint usually feels uncomfortable when someone crowds him, but Steve’s basically a giant puppy dog. “I don’t quite know what we did, and Tony tried to explain, but—well, I’m sure he means well, but I think he enjoys using euphemisms just to turn me in circles.” Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I think Tony’s just worried I’m going to have a problem with…homosexuality.” Steve says the word carefully, but like he’s concentrating on the pronunciation, not the meaning. “People treat it different today than they did in the forties, but it’s not like it’s a new thing. I thought you and Coulson were sweethearts. I shouldn’t have assumed. None of us should.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, staring down in his coffee. “About that. Um. We weren’t, uh, ‘sweethearts.’ But now we kind of are? Maybe.”

A little crease of confusion appears between Steve’s eyebrows. “I think you might have to explain a bit more. Try not to use too many modern catchphrases, if you can.”

“Things were…fucked up. For a bit. With me and Coulson. But that’s nobody’s fault, and we’ve kind of figured things out now, and we—” his mouth twists with a smile that he doesn’t feel confident enough to share. “We like each other. Like, _like_ each other. Or, sorry, I mean—”

“I think I get the picture,” Steve says, breaking out in a broad grin. “Hot damn. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. Uh, thanks.” Clint stirs his coffee a bit, making sure all the cinnamon’s mixed in.

“I’m real glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

“I…I kind of have an ulterior motive.”

“Which is?”

Clint scratches the back of his head. “I thought maybe you could help me. With, you know. Dating?”

Steve’s eyes get big. “I—sure, I mean, I’ll help however I can, you know that—but don’t you think someone else might be able to help more? Surely Tony or Bruce would know more about how things work today, and Natasha knows Coulson better than I do.”

Clint doesn’t know how to explain that Steve makes Clint feel safer than the rest of them do. Steve’s always been careful and kind with Clint, and that’s how Clint wants to be to Coulson. “He took me bird watching,” Clint says quietly. “And he doesn’t even like birds that much. He did it just to be nice, not because he wanted anything. I don’t know how to do something like that for him. But I…I really want to.”

Steve just looks at him, like Clint’s become someone he doesn’t know. Then he puts on his Captain America Saves the Day expression, and says, “What does he like?”

Steve helps Clint brainstorm, both of them crowding over Clint’s StarkTab, Googling modern dating etiquette and calendars of upcoming events. Steve doodles absentmindedly on a napkin while they talk. By the time they leave, Clint has a map of all the best bookstores in the city, with stars next to all the ones that specialize in sci-fi. When they leave, Clint puts their cups in the bin and Steve pockets his napkins.

*

Clint and Coulson spend a whole Saturday walking around the city. Clint enjoys walking now in a way he never has before, appreciating every pain-free step. Coulson finds new books at almost every place they go to. Clint’s glad for all his extra weightroom training, because the bags are ridiculously heavy. They eat roasted peanuts and Coulson points out interesting architectural features. Coulson knows what they’re called, and Clint knows all the best ways to climb on them.

Coulson plans the next outing. He takes Clint horseback riding outside the city. “I saw you when Neal and Peter were telling that story about riding that horse in Central Park,” Coulson says. They go on a day that’s sunny and humid from a recent rain, and their horses run so fast the wind blows Clint’s hair back and makes him feel like he’s flying. On their drive back, Clint almost wants to hold Coulson’s hand, but doing any new thing with his biotech can be a trial, and Clint hadn’t ever held hands even when they used to be flesh and bone.

For their next date, Clint follows Steve’s advice and takes Coulson out for ice cream at a little hole-in-the-wall parlor Natasha mentioned once. It’s dark inside, almost cozy, and the booth they sit in is so small their knees knock together. Clint gets a milkshake and Coulson gets a cone of rocky road. They talk about a lot of little things: Bruce’s hair, the ridiculous headlines the papers make up for the Avengers’ exploits, Tigger, who’s gotten into a nasty habit of trying to climb up every drapery in the tower, including Thor’s cape.

Coulson’s smiling, and licking the ice cream dripping down the cone and onto his fingers. Clint shifts in his seat, his knee sliding against Coulson’s thigh, and he realizes what’s happening. He inhales sharply, his body tensing, pulling away from Coulson as much as he can. His throat closes up, and for a second panic overwhelms him.

Clint’s getting hard. He’s getting an erection, right there in the middle of the parlor, with Coulson close enough to _touch_ him. The only times Clint’s gotten hard since he got out of prison, he’s been in the shower, on his knees, biting his knuckles to keep from making any sound, trying to be as quick and ruthless as he can. He only jerks off about once a week, and he’s been grateful he hasn’t felt the need to do it any more than that.

The last time he got hard around another person was in prison. On Clint’s second-to-last day inside, Gretchenko had made one of the others suck Clint’s cock and finger his prostate until he was coming dry, begging for mercy, his whole body wracked with cramps as it tried to tear itself apart.

“Are you okay?” Coulson asks. Ice cream’s dripping down his index finger and his lips are wet and would be cold if Coulson kissed him.

“I’m fine.” Panic’s made his cock go down, but he doesn’t trust his body any more. He can barely make himself finish the conversation, and on the walk back, he keeps a careful distance between them the whole time.

*

Because Neal is the only person who really knows the whole story—or, as much as anyone who is not Clint—and because, if he’s being honest, Clint misses Neal, he pays him another night time visit. This time, he waits on the balcony. It’s chilly, but not freezing, and the cold suits him.

Neal comes home after dark again, if not as late as the previous time. He knocks from the inside of the patio door and Clint turns. Cautiously, Neal asks, “Come in?”

Clint considers the offer and after a second, takes it. He stands behind one of Neal’s chairs, his hands curling over the top of the back. He hadn’t come here with the intention of letting Neal know he was still pissed, still hurt, but he finds himself saying, “You should have at least tried to explain. You thought I was smart enough for college courses, you should have at least given it a shot.”

“I know,” Neal says, without pause. “I know, and I’m sorry, but contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m only human. I do stupid things, I make mistakes, I hurt people.”

After a moment, Clint nods once. “Okay.”

Neal’s shoulders loosen a bit. “I’m still sorry.”

“I—” Clint came here to do this, but all the same, taking the step at the moment he has to is harder than he thought it would be. He should have known. “I need help.”

Neal spreads his hands. “Whatever is in my power.”

Clint nods again and starts to pace. Neal says, “How about we sit on the couch?”

Clint takes the instruction. Once sitting, though, he finds himself fidgeting with his hands until Neal—choreographing every move—puts his over Clint’s and says, “Just say the first thing that comes to mind. I’ll ask questions from there.”

A myriad of thoughts clash in Clint’s mind. The only one that’s particularly coherent is, “I think I want to have sex with Coulson.”

Neal looks down at their hands, and then back up at Clint. Finally, he says, “That’s probably pretty confusing at this point.”

“Understatement,” Clint says. 

Neal tilts his head, thinking. He says, “Tell me one thing you want, just one.”

The one that comes out of Clint’s mouth is not the one he would have expected himself to choose. “Him to touch my neck like there’s nothing there, just skin and...and us, I guess.”

Softly, Neal says, “And tell me one thing you definitely do not want.”

Like the question before, there are a million, all crowding to be chosen. Clint says, “Him to choke me. With anything, his hand, his cock, his tie, I just—I don’t want that. I don’t even want a mimicry of it.”

Neal takes one hand from where they are still covering Clint’s and touches Clint’s cheek, encouraging Clint to look at him. Clint does so, meeting his eyes, and there’s no judgment there, only something that might be pride, could be admiration. Clint knows he’s seen the look before, just never realized what it was. That’s something his team has taught him.

Neal says, “Talk to him, Clint. Just the way you wish I had talked to you. Tell him about why you hate the things you hate, that there might be other things you don’t know about. Tell him what interests you and that even those things might have landmines you aren’t aware of.”

Clint takes back a hand to rub at his face. “Because being a basket case around sex is a super big turn on.”

“Being _you_ is a super big turn on for Coulson, Clint. Your voice, your body, the way you walk, how you shoot, everything about you works for that man. Believe me when I say talking with him about dos and don’ts is going to end well, for both of you.”

“And if I’m always this fucked up? If coming with someone else’s hand on my dick always makes me flash back to moments of something close to torture?”

“You won’t be,” Neal tells him evenly. Then, when Clint opens his mouth, “But, if by some non-existent chance you are, the two of you will find other ways to get pleasure from one another. Sex is important, hugely so, but it isn’t the centerpiece of any functional relationship, Clint.”

Clint takes a breath and closes his eyes in order to ask, “And it...it really is fun, done right?”

Clint’s had awkward and fumbling and sneaky and hasty sex in his life before the stuff in prison, which certain books Coulson has left for him, excerpts marked with post-it notes, suggest wasn’t sex at all. He hasn’t had good sex, or even particularly enjoyable sex.

“Clint,” Neal says softly, a broken note in his voice, and Clint stiffens up, but Neal just squeezes his hand. “You’re in for so many good experiences. You can’t even imagine.”

And Clint really did think he was done believing Neal, but he can’t help it, not with the sincerity of Neal’s voice, the way Neal brings his knees in so they touch Clint’s. After a second, Clint whispers, “Thanks.”

Neal just shakes his head. “Not at all.”

*

Clint makes the solemn and eloquent pronouncement, “I want to do stuff.”

Coulson nods distractedly. “Sure. I think Thor’s started another jigsaw puzzle in the living room.”

“No, I mean…sex. I’d like to start doing that. With you.”

Coulson looks up at Clint from his end of the couch, closes his book, and puts it on the end table. “I’d like that too.”

Clint feels unreasonably pleased that Coulson hadn’t asked Clint if he was sure. Clint likes that Coulson trusts him. “But I want to take it slow. Like, glacier slow.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m gonna say no to whatever I don’t want to do.” 

Coulson nods again, but with intent this time. 

“And you’re not going to do the things you don’t want to do either. I figure there’s going to be a lot of stuff you don’t want to do. There’s a lot of me that…that other people got to first.” Clint’s got scars and piercings and memories that have pretty much ruined parts of his body for anyone else’s enjoyment.

“That’s not going to stop me unless you want me to stop,” Coulson says. “I’ll say no if I need to say no. But I have a feeling I might say yes more than you expect I will. So: what do you want me to do?”

It feels selfish. Asking Coulson to do something for Clint just because Clint wants it. It’s not like giving a blowjob or getting fucked; there’s no pleasure in this for Coulson. But Neal had told Clint that give-and-take is how it’s supposed to work. He takes a deep breath before saying, “If you can pretend my tattoo isn’t there, would you mind kissing my neck?”

Coulson takes a long look at him before shifting closer on the couch. “Your tattoo doesn’t bother me. And I would love to kiss your neck.”

Clint feels Coulson’s breath before he feels his lips, and his skin prickles in anticipation. Then Coulson’s mouth is on him, kissing him, right over the tattoo, like the barbed wire isn’t even there. It feels shocking. It feels good, it feels like his whole body—all of his nerves—are focused right where Coulson is touching him. Coulson’s tongue flickers out and Clint shivers. His whole body’s tense, but not with fear; it doesn’t make sense.

Coulson’s moving, kissing a path down Clint’s neck, licking it and smoothing over his skin with his lips. Clint realizes he’s making noise, soft exhalations that sound like moans. He tenses again and does another check of the room, making sure they’re alone, making sure no one’s going to mistake Clint’s pleasure for an opportunity to take it from him.

Coulson pulls away, but just a bit. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He wants Coulson’s mouth back on him. He’s half-hard, and his palms, if they could sweat, would be damp.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“You’re beautiful,” Coulson says, pressing a kiss on a patch of skin he hasn’t touched yet; it sends a new shiver down Clint’s spine. “I could do this all day.” 

Clint wants to say please, or maybe thank you, or, more likely, you don’t have to, but none of them sound right. 

“Can I use my teeth?” Coulson asks. Clint’s breath catches in his throat. “Not hard,” Coulson says, “not enough to leave a mark.”

Clint’s got a scar on his left buttock that looks like a smile from where someone—he doesn’t know who, he’d been unconscious at the time—had bitten him. He’s never said no before, and he doesn’t want to say no to Coulson. He’s not sure he knows how. But he thinks maybe this will be different too, in the way that Coulson’s hands touch him differently and his lips meet Clint’s gently. “I don’t know,” Clint says. “Can you just try it?”

“Sure. I’m going to do it once,” Coulson says, “very lightly, and then I’ll stop and you can tell me whether or not to keep going.”

“’Kay.”

Coulson moves to the skin right under Clint’s ear and breathes, like the warmth of his breath will make Clint ready. Then Coulson kisses him with a scrape of his teeth that doesn’t hurt, doesn’t sting, it just _is_ , immediate and purposeful in a way the soft kisses hadn’t been. Clint’s hips twitch involuntarily and his breath leaves him in a gasp.

“Was that okay?”

“Yes, yes, it was—please do it again, just that hard, not—not more, please, keep going—”

Coulson kisses and licks and gently bites Clint’s neck. Clint’s breath catches with every movement Coulson makes, but it’s because he likes what Coulson’s doing, it’s because his body feels good, and apparently Clint’s breathing patterns respond the same way to pleasure as they do to pain.

“I think if I do anything more, it’ll leave a mark,” Coulson says regretfully. He licks the bottom of Clint’s earlobe and Clint flinches (in a good way, a new way; his body confuses him).

“You can leave a mark. I think—I’d like that, if it’s—but if you don’t want to, I get that, it’s fine.” A mark would mean that other people—the team—would know what they’ve been up to, and Clint gets why Coulson might not want them to know.

Coulson rests back on his corner of the couch and smiles. “I’d love to do that, but I’m going to wait until we can talk about it a bit more before I do. Okay?”

For some reason, Coulson saying _no_ seems beautiful to Clint. It makes it real. Coulson will say no if there’s something he doesn’t feel comfortable with, which makes Clint want to ask for more things. He knows there are things he’ll ask Coulson for which Coulson won’t want to do, but Coulson’s not going to let Clint hurt him. It’s as easy as saying no, or ‘I’m not sure’ or ‘Let’s wait for a bit.’

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes,” Coulson says, opening his arms. Clint practically climbs into his lap so he can get his hands on either side of Coulson’s face, because Clint wants to control this, just for a bit, just because. Coulson moves when Clint’s hands ask him to, he smiles and bends when Clint wants him to. (He’ll say no, the same way Clint could say no, if he changes his mind.)

“Want you to kiss my neck again,” Clint says, recklessly greedy just for a second. “Unless you don’t want to,” because maybe Coulson’s lips or mouth are tired, or Coulson finds it boring. “Or is it your turn? Yeah, wait, it is—”

“We can sort out turns later. Right now, yes, I would very much like to keep going.”

“O—okay.” Clint tilts his head and leans forward so Coulson can reach the side of his neck he hasn’t touched yet. Coulson starts by sucking gently on Clint’s skin, not hard enough to draw a bruise, but Clint feels it just the same. Coulson keeps going, one hand on the other side of Clint’s head to hold him steady. Coulson’s fingers brush over Clint’s ear which is apparently a pleasure zone he’s never noticed before.

Clint’s hard, his cock straining against his pants, and he can see Coulson’s in the same situation. Tentatively, Clint rocks his hips forward. “This is good?”

“Yes,” Coulson says with a groan. He reaches down and cups Clint’s dick through his pants. It’s barely a touch. It’s not like he’s squeezing Clint’s dick to make him hurt, he’s not even touching the skin or trying to unzip Clint’s pants. His fingers are nowhere near to where his skin has long healed around the removed piercing. But it makes Clint realize he’s bent over Coulson with his weight on his knees, which are digging into the couch cushions, and that is not a defensible position.

He scrambles out of Coulson’s lap and is halfway across the floor when he realizes what he’s doing. His eyes dart around the room, reflexively checking for any new threats or observers, but it’s just Coulson, holding his hands up in the air.

“I don’t like that,” Clint says, the words awkward and blunt. “No. Not like that. I don’t want that.”

“Okay,” Coulson says, slowly lowering his hands. “I’m very sorry I touched you there. I shouldn’t have, I know better than to do that.”

“You just wanted to.” Coulson nods. “But I didn’t, and I said no.” Clint feels like there’s something breaking inside of him. He feels stupid and young and new.

“You did.”

“And we’re not going to do it like that again,” Clint says slowly, watching Coulson for confirmation.

“No. I’d like to talk about it, so that I know exactly what went wrong, to make sure I don’t do it again.” 

Clint nods. He can do that. 

“That’s one yes and one no,” Coulson says. “I think we can call this a success.”

Clint looks at himself. He’s sprawled across the floor and he’s still a bit hard and Coulson’s alone on the couch with a tent in his pants. It’s an absurd situation and it’s all Clint’s fault. Coulson...Coulson really doesn’t seem to mind. Clint stands up slowly and offers Coulson a hand to get him off the couch. “Want to make some popcorn and watch _Indiana Jones_?”

“I’d love to. I should probably go change first, though.”

“Yeah, me too.” Clint doesn’t let go of Coulson’s hand and Coulson doesn’t move away. Clint looks at Coulson’s lips, which are still a bit swollen. Clint’s neck still feels hypersensitive. He leans forward, real slowly, and kisses Coulson again.

One yes and one no, and Clint had said them both.

*

“I want to try something,” Coulson says. “I want you to give me a massage, if you’re all right with that.”

Clint blinks. “I don’t know how.”

Coulson smiles. “I’m not looking for anything professional, nor whole body. I’m just going to lie on the bed, and give you some lotion and I want you to rub my muscles. Does that sound okay?”

The thought of Coulson shirtless, of having the right to touch wherever, being in charge of the activity is extremely attractive. The thought of being bad at it, or accidentally hurting Coulson—his tech is stronger than the average human musculature—is not. In the weeks they’ve been negotiating steps up the sexual ladder, kisses and touches and conversations about desires, Clint has learned that if his immediate response is not a no, then the one he should go with is, “Let’s try it.”

Coulson begins to unbutton his shirt. Surprising nobody more than himself, Clint asks, “Can I do that?”

Coulson drops his hands to his sides and stands with his body posture opening, welcome. Clint approaches. He’s clumsy at the task—he purposely does not wear buttons these days—but it’s worth the effort for the way standing that close to Coulson brings its own type of pleasure, and he gets to see his work, as though he’s unwrapping a present.

Coulson is built in the way a guy who can kick three other guys’ asses with a little bit of small talk and a few household items is built. He has a Rangers’ tattoo on his left pec, fading into the skin, a piece of history he does not have to be ashamed of. For a moment, Clint is irrationally jealous. He lifts his hand to touch, but looks at Coulson before actually completing the task.

Coulson says, “Touch anywhere you can see skin.”

Clint traces the shape of the inked crest slowly with one finger. Then he turns Coulson slightly, and pushes him toward the bed. Coulson goes easily, asking, “Want me on my back or front?”

Clint considers which will be easier to start with, to warm up to. “Front.”

Once Coulson is settled, Clint grabs the bottle of lotion sitting on the nightstand and rubs some into his hands. Before he can think too much about it, Clint straddles Coulson, seating himself on Coulson’s ass. He takes more lotion then, warming it in his palms before setting both of them flatly on either side of Coulson’s spine. Coulson sucks in a long, shaky breath and Clint realizes the lower back works for Coulson like Clint’s ears work for him. It’s good knowledge. He smiles.

He takes his time, then, finding knots in abundance near Coulson’s shoulders. Experimentally, he presses on one and Coulson makes a noise, which nearly has Clint half-way across the room until Coulson follows it with, “Harder, please?” and he’s not begging, but he’s close.

Clint presses in harder. Coulson whimpers and goes still and without understanding why, Clint goes even harder until he feels the knot release. “Oh.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I really love you.”

Stunted development or not, Clint gets that people sometimes say that when someone else has done something for them. All the same, he files it away as something he gets to keep, no matter what. He goes to work on the next knot.

By the time he’s finished with Coulson’s back, Coulson’s three-fourths asleep, and the parts of Clint’s hands that aren’t tech ache fiercely. He mumbles, “I don’t think I can do the front.”

“C’mere,” Coulson murmurs, and helps maneuver Clint so they’re both lying down, facing each other. Coulson says, “I want to do that for you, but to your hands. Does that sound good?”

Its sounds _amazing_ , really, so Clint nods, wide-eyed. Coulson snags the lotion bottle and takes Clint’s hand in his, starting with the right, keeping the dominant hand free. Clint thinks, _don’t take this the wrong way, but I love you._ He doesn’t say it. Unlike Coulson, it has nothing to do with physical release.

Coulson digs in, and it is by turns agonizing and delicious. Clint is hard, has been slowly getting there since this exercise started, but it’s not the painful kind, just a low thrum through his body.

Coulson moves on to the left hand, even more diligent in his work. Time warps around the sensation of Coulson’s fingers digging into Clint’s palm, between and around the tech, finding the places where the tension creeps in and does not leave. When Coulson’s done, he raises each of Clint’s hands to his mouth, kissing the spots where there were once scars, but are now more a network of gold and blue tech “veins.”

“Coulson,” Clint says, half-asleep himself.

“Mm, babe?”

And that’s new, something else Clint files away to think about. He’s been called a lot of nicknames, some even twists on things supposed to be endearments—”sweetcheeks,” “princess,”—but never something so simple as “babe,” and never in that sleepy, fond tone. Clint’s not certain, but he thinks he likes it.

“Can I just—” Clint moves closer, so that their clothed cocks are right up against each other. Coulson’s breath sputters for a moment.

When he recovers, Coulson says, “You set the pace.”

Clint wraps his arm around Coulson, appreciating that Coulson doesn’t reciprocate, leaves Clint in charge and free to get away. Clint goes slowly at first, making sure it’s fine, making sure he’s not going to freak out and leave Coulson hanging. But the feel of Coulson’s skin against the parts of his hand with sensory perception, the loose warmth in the joints of his hand, the powerful pleasure of each hint of contact between their cocks is too much and he speeds up, making breathy, low-pitched noises he can’t control.

Coulson gasps, “Fuck, how are you real?”

Clint’s not sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound bad. Coulson is the first to come, his body not fighting against him, his mind not filled with associations that have to be shoved out of the way. But Clint follows, getting to a place that’s bright and hazy, without the sharpness, the bitterness of the orgasms he’s wrung from himself lately. It’s as though his body has done something completely different, which is clearly untrue.

His mind knows the difference, though. He stutters, “I—I liked that.”

“Oh good,” Coulson mumbles. “Because I think I’m addicted.”

The statement should make Clint freeze up with its implications of need and willingness to do anything for something, but instead, the breezy, drained way Coulson says it just makes Clint laugh, wild and loud and unafraid to be heard.

*

Clint likes making out with Coulson more and more each time they do it, but he likes talking to him even more. Especially when they’re sitting on the big couch in the living room, Coulson’s laptop open and ignored on his lap, Clint’s dog-eared copy of whatever book he’s reading slowly disappearing down the side of the couch. (The cushions eat things. Bruce is pretty sure that Tony made them sentient.)

What Clint doesn’t like so much, is when he and Coulson are going from talking to making out—Coulson’s finally closed his laptop and unzipped Clint’s hoodie, caressing his neck the whole time—and Captain America walks in. 

Coulson goes flaming red as soon as he sees his childhood hero, and Steve doesn’t look that much better off. Clint’s mostly gotten his desire to get the fuck out of the room under control. He zips his hoodie up as fast as he can, bunching the hood up a bit to hide the tattoo. 

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says frantically. “I should have...”

“Knocked? It’s a public space,” Coulson says. “We weren’t really doing anything. Just fooling around.” Coulson’s looking at Clint though, looking at his neck. Clint covers himself with his hands as casually as he can, in case the hoodie’s not covering it up well enough. 

“Still, I’m sorry. Sorry, Clint.” 

Clint nods and scrunches down further into the couch. 

“I’ll, uh—I’ll leave you two alone, to, um—”

“Fill out mission briefings.” 

“Oh,” Steve says sagely. “That’s what the kids are calling it these days.” Steve lingers for a second before he goes. He and Coulson are exchanging a look, and Clint has the uncomfortable feeling it’s about him.

*

Clint’s _positive_ it’s about him when Tony announces, “We’re having a dinner party. With Agent’s very oldest friend and his pet CI.”

It’s all Clint can do not to throw the butter knife he’s using on his toast at Tony. With enough pressure, he could do damage. Instead he makes himself look at Tony and says, “ _Don’t_ call Neal that.”

Tony puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender and apologizes with his eyes if not his words. Tony’s not great with apologies, but Clint suspects Tony may have said one too many as a kid, so he doesn’t press the point. Tony wears assholishness like Bruce wears invisibility. Clint has learned when to push and when to just let Tony be.

“Anyway,” Tony drawls, acting like there was some hour-long interruption. “The Burkes and the infamous Neal Caffrey will be dining with us at seven o’ clock sharp tomorrow evening. Try to come in clean underwear.”

“Underwear is for the weak,” Natasha says, not looking up from the newspaper she’s reading. Clint just barely manages to resist smashing his face into the nearest wall.

*

Neal, Elizabeth and Peter each come bearing a box of petits fours from The Greatest Cake Bakery, which Clint is continuously amazed to find still in existence, seeing as how Neal knows nothing about owning a bakery. But then, that’s Neal in a nutshell, he supposes.

Tony ushers them inside and offers them drinks. Bruce stays by the wall, blending into the surroundings as best he can. Steve shakes their hands and welcomes them. Natasha gives her very best impression of normal. It’s a startlingly good impression. Clint is almost taken in by it. Thor very loudly proclaims his pleasure at “Meeting these trustworthy and loyal friends of our archer!”

Coulson says, “Welcome to the zoo.”

Elizabeth laughs and gives him a welcome kiss. “So far, they’re a very charming menagerie.”

Peter offers his help, but Tony waves a hand. “I have people. Lots and lots of people.”

It clearly makes Peter uncomfortable. Clint understands; it still makes him feel that way.

After having said hello to Clint and met each of the team, Neal stole off with Steve, the two of them taking up chairs in the sitting room to the right of the dining area. They’re there for quite some time, speaking quietly to each other, and Clint knows he’s paranoid, but seriously, how much can Neal and Captain America possibly have in common? When he gets close enough to hear, though, they’re talking about art, and oh, Clint had forgotten about that. He leaves them to it.

He takes a seat next to Elizabeth, who’s engrossed in conversation with Pepper about running a business. It’s all above Clint’s head, but he finds listening to the two of them interesting, like a window into a different world, one with the same amount of aggression but a lot less actual violence.

At dinner, he’s seated between Coulson and Neal. Peter is on Coulson’s other side, with Steve across from them, and the three are knee deep in a conversation about baseball that has Neal sighing only half-fondly. Next to Peter, Tony is trying to hire Elizabeth to plan his next birthday party. It’s his fiftieth. He has been alternating between fretting and attempting to plan for about three months. Pretty much since his last birthday. On the other side of Tony, Bruce and Pepper are taking turns rolling their eyes and throwing out deadpan menu selection options that have Elizabeth growing a wicked glint in her eye.

Natasha wants to know how Neal pulled off some heist—allegedly—that Clint has never even heard about. And Thor has a look on his face that Clint has come to associate with when the god is thinking about his brother. Clint knows the feeling. He wasn’t around when Loki showed up the first few times to wreak havoc, but he does know that getting over blood, no matter how destructive, is nearly impossible. And Clint suspects Thor has a softer heart than Clint, warrior or no.

Clint can’t say what he expected when Tony announced this impromptu dinner party, but the unease he’d felt in his gut upon seeing Tony’s gleeful anticipation, hearing Thor’s hearty approval, and watching Natasha and Bruce’s quiet but obvious interest in finally meeting Neal and Peter dissipates as he eats and nobody starts a food fight or just plain walks out. Everybody is essentially behaving themselves, except for the—understandable—moments when they aren’t. But Peter and Elizabeth deal with Neal all the time. They know to expect a little mayhem.

At some point, Coulson knocks Clint’s knee with his own under the table and Clint glances his way. He’s eating, but Clint can see the question in his body language, his need to check that Clint’s doing all right. Clint nods slightly.

Tony lifts his glass and proposes a toast, “To agency cooperation.”

Steve almost does a spittake across the table, it’s a close thing. Natasha raises her glass coolly. Neal initiates a drinking song. It’s less than a verse in when Thor throws his lot in with Neal, and from there on out, everything is pretty much controlled chaos. Just the way it ought to be.

*

Neal comes over unexpectedly a week later, and he and Steve get JARVIS to summon Clint into the living room. It’s just the three of them. Neal’s smiling and Steve’s bouncing with nervous energy.

“This might be an awful idea,” Steve prefaces. Clint’s pretty sure Steve’s not going to fire him or try to instigate an orgy; other than that, Clint’s faith in his team leader is pretty solid. “But I wanted to do this, and Neal thought it might be a good idea…”

“To…what?”

“Well—it started in the café, see, because you were telling me about birds, and—well, maybe I’m on the wrong track, but Neal said he used to draw you pictures of them. And you like that.”

“So? You’re starting to freak me out.”

Neal takes a piece of paper from Steve and flips it over on the table. At first, Clint doesn’t recognize what he sees. It’s beautiful—there’s a bird in flight, its body drawn with strong, graceful lines, all arches and curves. The bird’s escaping from something—a patch of thorns, a—a barbed wire fence, he realizes. His hand floats up to touch his neck.

“You don’t like your tattoo,” Steve says. “If you want to change it, we thought we’d give you some options.”

It would take a lot of work. It would claim a new stretch of unmarked skin, and Clint doesn’t have that many left. But he doesn’t like that he sees Gretchenko’s mark every time he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t like zipping up his field uniform until the collar practically digs into his chin. Clint’s been given his hands and feet back. He’ll take his neck back, too. “Let’s do it.”

*

It’s easier said than done, but the team does their best to get it done smoothly. Tony, being Tony, turns a corner of his workshop into a tattoo parlor, with state-of-the-art equipment. Neal, for reasons he can’t explain (it’s got something to do with the statute of limitations), is a licensed tattoo artist. It’s a pretty fancy set-up.

Gretchenko’s guy just had a couple of sewing needles and ink from a ballpoint pen. Clint thinks he’s less likely to pick up Hepatitis or HIV using Tony’s pristine, sterilized equipment. Neal cleans the skin and he and Steve transfer the outline of the new design with grease-proof paper. 

“We’re not getting rid of anything; the old lines will still be there. We’re just adding, depth, color, some narrative. Smoothing things out,” Neal explains. 

Clint doesn’t understand the process entirely, but he likes it. What he doesn’t like so much is Steve and Neal touching him so much. They’re both careful with their hands and their body language; Clint is starting to feel like an alpha wolf, the two of them being so submissive and tentative. Coulson’s sitting on a stool out of the way, smiling at Clint whenever he looks over.

When the needle hits his skin for the first time, he manages to hold steady for a few seconds before he’s pushing everyone away, gasping for breath. His body knows the pain of needles piercing his skin, and it knows he needs to get away or the pain will just get worse.

“Sorry—it just took me by surprise.” He clutches the end of the armrests, takes a deep breath, and tells them he’s okay to keep going. He manages to stay still a bit longer, but he can’t help striking out at them, and he clips Neal’s arm pretty hard. “Shit, I didn’t—I did not mean to do that. Reflex, is all.”

Steve smiles at him comfortingly and says, “Would it help if we strapped you down? The chair comes with a lot of accessories.”

“No,” Clint says quickly. “That would be—that would be a lot worse.” He doesn’t owe any of them more of an explanation than that, but he wants to share. “First time around, I was…restrained. Worst New Year’s ever,” he says with a twisted smile. He’s lying, but he’s not going to tell them he’d had worse New Year’s than that in prison. He wants to share with them, not terrify them unnecessarily.

“We don’t have to do this,” Steve says.

“No. I want you to.” Clint’s fled from a lot of battlefields. He’s saved himself a lot of pain by refusing to fight. He wants to win this one. This battlefield is his body, and he wants to take it back. “Phil, can you talk to me? While they’re working?”

Coulson moves closer to the table, opposite Neal, so he’s in a clear line of sight, and talks. About what, Clint’s not sure; but he uses the familiar sound of Coulson’s voice like a lifeline, every time he starts to go under. When the involuntary movements of Clint’s body threaten Neal’s delicate work, Steve holds Clint’s hands. Steve’s hands are big and warm and they won’t be broken if Clint holds on too tightly. Steve’s thumbs rub small circles on the backs of Clint’s hands, and Coulson calls him _babe_ and Clint vows that he will get through this. The rewards are worth it.

*

The work takes hours. Clint loses track of minutes and hours really early on, but by the time they’re done, Coulson’s voice is sandpaper-rough despite his regular sips of water. Clint wants to kiss him as a thank you. He thinks if he comes into contact with one more thing he will lose his mind. He compromises by mouthing, “love you,” glancing sideways at Coulson who says, aloud, where the others can hear, “Love you, too.”

Clint looks over at him, blinking, and Coulson returns his gaze steadily. Then he says, “C’mon, you should see what you won.”

Clint wonders if he said something about fighting aloud, or if Coulson has just figured him out. Coulson ushers him out of the chair without ever touching him, and Clint can sense Neal and Steve following in their wake. Clint feels like something is off with Neal, and it takes him a few moments of thought to realize Neal is nervous. Even now, Clint’s adjusting to a universe where Clint Barton has some measure of control over Neal Caffrey. 

Steve’s also nervous, which is a little more common, but still of note. Clint doesn’t actually want to keep Steve on edge; Steve hasn’t done anything to deserve it. They go to the workshop’s bathroom, able to all fit comfortably, because Tony—of course—put a master suite bathroom there. In fairness, Clint does not doubt Tony uses it as much, if not more, than the one in his actual master suite.

Clint turns on the lights, softly white and bright. The skin of his neck is red and wet-looking, irritated from the needles. Looking past that, however, there is a sharpie hawk tangled, breaking free of the line of barbed wire, aided by a white-tipped dove. Clint chose the birds. The sharpie was easy, sharpies being one of the smallest and, by necessity, craftiest genus of hawk. The dove had taken a while longer. He’d needed something inconspicuous, demure and clever and willing to show itself every once in a rare while. 

The work covers almost the entirety of his neck, the birds gracing one side of his neck each, their beaks working at the wire above his collarbone, their tails nearly touching just above the notch of his spine. Clint looks at it until his eyes burn.

Finally, Steve says, “If you don’t like it, there’s always tattoo removal. Tony has once or twice mentioned that he thinks he can do better than the commercial stuff—”

“No,” Clint says softly. 

“Clint?” Neal asks.

Clint shakes his head, not sure how to explain, how to get across that for the first time in forever, he feels like there’s no part of him that was taken away that can’t be regained in some measure. Eventually he tells Steve, “It’s perfect. I wish—I wish I could give you something half as perfect.”

Steve gets a small smile on his face, unusually cryptic, and says, “You do, Clint.”

Neal says, “Talk later,” as he’s being pulled out of the room by Steve.

Clint laughs a little and faces Coulson who says, “I’ve been reading up on tattoo aftercare.”

Clint can’t even find it in himself to be surprised. Grateful, yes, but Coulson is always three steps ahead. Clint is convinced Coulson came out of the womb walking and annoyed that everyone else was taking so long. “Yeah?”

Coulson’s smile is gentle. “I’m gonna feed you a smoothie, now, to get your blood sugar back up, and then you’re going to take a nap. And when you wake up, if you feel like letting me, I’m going to wash the skin with baby soap and put unscented lotion on it, and we’ll spend the evening taking it easy.”

“I like that plan,” Clint admits.

“Pineapple-orange-banana?”

“Real pineapple, not canned?” Clint asks. He can taste the can. It reminds him of prison.

“Of course,” Coulson tells him, and well, Clint supposes that really is the truth. 

Clint grins. “Of course.”

*

Coulson tells him they’re going to go out for dinner, so Clint dresses up in an outfit he picked out the last time Pepper took him shopping. Coulson gives him a long look when Clint comes out of the bathroom, and Clint preens under Coulson’s gaze. He soaks in Coulson’s attention, only the faintest echoes of the times when Clint had feared anyone else’s interest in him interfering with that pleasure.

“You look good in purple,” Coulson says.

“You look good in everything,” Clint replies, because he’s yet to see Coulson in anything that hadn’t made the man look beautiful. “You also look good in nothing.” He tries to tug Coulson back into the bedroom, to strip Coulson naked and prove his point. They’ve managed to attain full frontal with Coulson. Clint still doesn’t like having his back on display, all too aware of the Cyrillic claim carved there. He hasn’t yet managed to convince himself that baring his cock to another person will lead to pleasure. None of this affects how much he likes getting Coulson out of his clothes and being given free range to do anything. 

Tonight, though, Coulson is having none of it. He ducks Clint’s grip and leads him into the elevator. Coulson kisses him senseless pretty much as soon as the door slides closed, which is why Clint doesn’t notice that the elevator is going up instead of down. When the elevator drops them off on the top floor, Clint tenses, prepared for an attack.

“Surprise,” Coulson says quietly, smiling at him and kissing him one last time. Clint can hear people talking—it’s a large group of people, laughing and chatting, quiet music playing in the background.

When he and Coulson reach the entrance to the living room, everyone who’s there turns and cheers and claps. They’re saying Clint’s name, so he knows it’s not a party for Coulson, or a celebration for both of them, but he’s got no idea why. Neal and Peter and Elizabeth are there, and Maria Hill—the whole team’s there, joined by Darcy and Jane and—to Clint’s shock—director Fury. 

“Um,” he says, shifting uneasily under their attention. “It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s an anniversary,” Coulson says.

“Of what?”

Neal steps forward—he’s wearing a tux and looks like James Bond—and says, “Two years ago, you started your life over. We want to celebrate being a part of it.”

It doesn’t feel like two years. It feels like a different life.

He remembers leaving prison. He remembers how cold he’d been, how uncomfortable he’d felt in his own clothes and his own body, he remembers being shocked beyond words that Neal and Peter had come to get him.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he admits. He’s started keeping track of his own birthday again (the surprise birthday party Tony had thrown had nearly given Clint a heart attack before he figured out what was happening), and he’s got all of his friends’ birthdays marked down on his StarkTab, but this—this isn’t a milestone he’d paid any attention to. It’s not one he thought anyone else would notice either, especially the team, who’d only met him after he’d been with SHIELD for nearly a year.

“Well, we thought about it,” Neal replies. “We’re happy you’re here, and we want to celebrate.”

“Thank you,” Clint says, one of his hands snaking out to grab hold of Coulson’s. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of his nerves. “I hadn’t…this means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

Everyone smiles at him, and some of them clap again, and then Neal’s leading him into the party. Clint hugs more people than he can count, and without once feeling trapped or panicky. Twice Coulson wipes lipstick kisses off Clint’s cheeks. It feels like forever before Clint’s finally done saying hello to everyone. He hadn’t realized how many friends he has.

He and Coulson load up their plates with the snacks and treats from the buffet tables lining one of the walls. It’s all food Clint likes and it all tastes delicious, maybe better than it ever has before. By the time Clint finishes his slice of chocolate raspberry cake, his face hurts from smiling.

After dinner, there is dancing. Natasha’s pulled Bruce onto the floor, he looks faintly bemused as she maneuvers him around the way she wants. Pepper’s high heels are dangling in her hand as she and Tony sway to the music. Darcy and Jane are getting down on the dance floor, but Thor and Steve are talking quietly off to the side; they both come from worlds and times with different kinds of dances. Clint’s world, up till now, hasn’t had any dancing, so he can’t help getting a bit flustered when Coulson asks him to dance.

“I don’t know how,” he says.

“I’ll teach you. It’s mostly just an excuse to hold you in public.”

Clint blushes, but nods and lets Coulson lead him out to the portion of the room marked off for dancing. Coulson puts one of his hands on Clint’s lower back, directly over the markings, and holds one of Clint’s hands. Clint settles into the frame of Coulson’s arms. The song’s slow and Phil’s holding him loosely, so after a minute, Clint takes a shuffle step forward to press himself against Phil’s body. They sway to the music, their feet not even leaving the floor. 

“Happy anniversary,” Coulson says, pressing a chaste kiss on Clint’s neck. Clint smiles and closes his eyes, feeling safe enough to let his guard down. The people in this room care for him. 

Clint’s part of a team now. He’s part of a family.

*

A little less than a week after the party, Clint wakes in the middle of the night from a nightmare. They’re not as common, now, nor as violent, but they come and wake him and even with Coulson a steady, quiet presence beside him, there but not crowding, Clint can almost never fall back asleep.

This time he does not try. He grabs a bottle of water from his kitchen and slips through the completely superfluous airways Tony put in to allow him a comfortable way from one area to the next on his own floor. He drops out at the range and takes his time putting on the protective gear. He’s not really waiting for anything, he’s just not in a hurry, either.

He says, “Busy night, JARVIS?”

JARVIS sounds amused as he answers, “Captain Rogers is taking advantage of the life model decoy boxing program Master Stark created, Ms. Romanoff is conversing over tea with Dr. Banner. The others seemed to be engaged in a strange and foreign activity known as sleeping.”

“You’re a riot, JARVIS.” Clint smiles, though. There’s something comforting about knowing he’s not the only one who finds himself haunting places other than his bed at night, that none of the others would judge him for the need to escape his own mind now and then.

He strings one of the bows, one he hasn’t used yet. Tony has been experimenting with bow technologies from different cultures, both human and those Thor has been explaining to them. Sometimes the results are amazing. Often they are...well, Coulson has only had to threaten everything Tony holds dear once, so other than that one time Clint likes to consider the others minor failures.

He doesn’t mind; it’s totally worth it for the times when Tony comes up with something brilliant. Once Clint’s got this newest prototype properly configured he takes it to the shooting point and starts with a few easy shots. Clint makes mental notes about the problems and the things he loves.

He has no idea how much time has passed when Coulson walks in through the main door, barefoot and shirtless and sleep-mussed. Clint almost misses his target. He doesn’t, but it’s closer than he really wants to admit.

Coulson raises a brow. “Am I throwing off your game?”

Clint lets the bow hang at his side as he rolls his eyes. “Why yes, Mister Stark.”

Coulson laughs and comes close enough to run a finger over the line of the bow, to whisper against Clint’s lips, “How’s that working out?”

Clint steals a kiss. “Needs some tweaking.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Coulson asks.

“Did you have something more interesting in mind?”

Coulson tilts his head and licks a broad stripe over the spot where the dove has torn away at the barbed wire. “Suppose that depends on your definition of more interesting.”

Clint pushes a little at Coulson, to give himself space. He breathes and puts the bow back neatly, shelving the arrows as well. Then he looks at Coulson, a full once-over, letting Coulson know he’s _looking_ , and says, “I think you could find something to intrigue me.”

Coulson grins, slow and sharp. “I’ll take that challenge.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ria-oaks AWESOME INCREDIBLE (but a little bit spoilery, hence putting this note at the end) ART can be found [here](http://ria-oaks.livejournal.com/582381.html?view=3012589#t3012589) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/550973/chapters/981611). Go give her all the love. ALL OF IT.
> 
> Additionally, rubygirl29 made a wonderful manip just out of the kindness of her heart, which is lovely and makes me claps my hand with happiness. Go see it [here](http://arsenicjade.livejournal.com/1028982.html).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Purge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027557) by [Dragonanzar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonanzar/pseuds/Dragonanzar)




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